


Zero Hour

by monstersinthecosmos



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Astral Projection, BDSM, Blow Jobs, Dom Shiro (Voltron), M/M, Mutual Pining, Panic Attacks, Rimming, Sub Keith (Voltron), everyone has PTSD, face fucking, giant galra dildos, internalized kink shame, junk science about consciousness, kuron is out of control, long talks about feelings, nervous tea drinking, sad masturbation, season 7, shared hallucination, shiro and i dont know that guy, the black lion is a sheith shipper, unofficial therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2019-04-05
Packaged: 2019-09-05 20:31:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 55,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16817920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monstersinthecosmos/pseuds/monstersinthecosmos
Summary: “What do I know?” he whispers to himself. Focus. He remembers having surgery and getting a new arm, he remembers the trip to Earth. He remembers Sendak, remembers the lions crashing. Coma. But he thinks he remembers other things, too.The broken blood vessel in Keith’s eye, and the tender purple bruises. He remembers that Black called to him.Maybe she’s calling him now.____________________In which Shiro uses the Black Lion as a conduit to reach Keith in his coma and she encourages them to talk it out in the void.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! First off, E rating and tags are mostly for later chapters to come, I didn't want to surprise anyone with it later. Hang in there! 
> 
> Second! I do a lot of hand waving about junk science, medical advances, and consciousness, which we are going to conveniently ignore because it's the future and there's magic Altean tech and stuff so just, deal with it. 
> 
> Third! This fic is named after [Zero Hour by Grendel](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f1ae9EwfV1M), super music rec if you're into Sheith and love some space angst vibes.
> 
> FINALLY just super shoutout to [yureiyume](https://yureiyume.tumblr.com/) for talking me through this fic for the last month cause I get really jittery and insecure and need someone to hold my hand and encourage me LMAO and she's been burdened with this job. Thanks babe!

The important information is getting through, he thinks. Stuff about letting him rest, that their resources are depleted from the invasion, that they’re keeping him under until they’re sure his brain won’t swell.

“The method is a bit antiquated,” she’s saying, and Shiro nods absently, only hearing half, “but it’s perfectly safe. The coma should only last a few days.”

 _Coma_.

The word itself slices through him, and he tries to remember what else he was told. Snippets of it float to the surface, like _induced_ and _brain injury_ and _trauma_. They’re dark words that feel icy at the base of his skull, despite how soft she’s keeping her voice.

“Can I go see him?” he blurts out, interrupting her. It flushes in his face for a moment, and he coughs a meek apology. But he doesn’t want to be in the lab anymore, surrounded by the images of all the brain scans.

“Well,” her eyes narrow, like she’s trying to read him, and maybe she knows that he wasonly asking to be formal He’s going to go to Keith, regardless. This gives her a last shot at giving him advice. “He needs rest, so keep the stimulus to a minimum.”

She sounds skeptical but finally gestures to the door, then walks Shiro down the hallway to Keith’s room. Normally, this would be past visiting hours, but he can’t know how traditional they’re sticking to those rules since the invasion. Besides, he thinks he and the Paladins have free reign across the whole compound at this point—he intends to come and go to Keith’s room as he pleases and doesn’t think anyone will try to stop him.

Still, it feels vulnerable standing there with her. She knows things that he doesn’t; she’s the one who can save him.

There’s an urge to be at Keith’s side immediately, he doesn’t want to wait anymore, but catching the first sight of him through the window on the door makes him freeze in the hallway.

He looks so small. Frail. Moonlight and monitors bathe him in a pale blue that makes him look ghostly. And Shiro wants to be by his side but doesn’t want to do the wrong thing. It looks like he could break.

“Can I touch him?” he asks. Her hand is soft on his left forearm.

“Just be gentle with him,” she says, and she squeezes him, then walks away.

His heart is pounding so hard he can feel it in the back of his throat.

The door wheezes softly as he steps inside, into the warmth and dark. The machines attached to him don’t make noise, but he watches the numbers on the monitors for a moment before coming closer. It’s Keith’s lifeforce spelled out in little graphs, something tangible. Shiro’s hand goes sweaty at his side.

It’s been a hard twelve hours and the toll is setting in. He’s seen Keith once, a quick flash of the stretcher when they’d brought him inside, his face still swollen and blood in his hair. And being reassured that he’d be okay just hadn’t been enough. It’s still winding him tight with stress to see him so weak but it’s a relief to finally be here. 

At first the sight of all the devices and tubes is overwhelming. He isn’t sure how to approach. And his right arm tingles in memory. But if there’s ever been a time to turn the volume low on his own bullshit, this is it. 

It’s less daunting when he comes in closer, makes a little more sense. Maybe his eyes are adjusting to the dim light, or maybe he’s able to focus on Keith instead of the big picture of the whole room. He still looks pale, small. He’d grown a few inches while he was away but Shiro isn’t seeing that right now. He looks like the malnourished teenager Shiro had first met, the one who wouldn’t admit he needed to be rescued. 

He can’t help the wry chuckle to himself as he reaches for Keith’s hand. He deserves this, he thinks. He’s certainly put Keith through it before. Maybe this makes them even. He tries to imagine a version of them where they aren’t dealing with war, with danger. It must exist somewhere, in another reality. 

But, he sighs. He’s in this reality. So what difference does it make.

Keith’s hand is cool and clammy, and Shiro squeezes gently, rubs circles along his knuckles. There are fading bruises and his skin is rough with abrasions. 

They really should stop doing this to each other. 

He tries to remember more of what the doctor said, reassure himself that Keith will be okay. It’s not as bad as it looks. But being here isn’t enough. He won’t feel better until Keith is awake. 

Is it stupid if he tries to talk? He thinks he’s too self conscious and doesn’t know if he actually has anything to say. Maybe it’s just an instinct to fill the room with sound. The quiet is too uncomfortable. 

“Keith,” he finally mumbles. He lowers the rail to sit down on the edge of the bed. It’s the side where there are no tubes. “What am I supposed to do about you?”

It’s been such a long day. 

He looks over his shoulder towards the door, then glances at the clock. It’s late. He unbuttons the top of his jacket and rolls his shoulders. He needs to sleep. 

“I’m jealous,” he whispers. “We could all use a few days off.”

Keith’s hair is a mess, sticking up in all directions around his bandage, parts of it still matted with blood. Hopefully someone will take care of that for him soon. Maybe someone will give him a shave. Shiro supposes he might even do it himself, but… not now. Now that he’s sitting his whole body feels heavy, the weight of the last few days weaving around his limbs. There’s a pressure building in the back of his head, like something touching inside. It’s warm and familiar, though, and he undoes the jacket belt, then the rest of the buttons.

The swelling has gone down but there are bruises pooling around the inner corners of Keith’s eyes, splashing purple against his nose. Shiro leans forward and glances at the door again, checking for privacy before he touches Keith’s face with his human hand, gently peeling one of his eyelids back. There’s a broken blood vessel, splotchy red, and he doesn’t respond. Not that he would, Shiro knows that much. But the dull way he stares ahead at nothing is unnerving. 

His hand lingers. He strokes Keith’s jaw, traces beneath the oxygen tube. _He’ll be okay._ Shiro has waited longer for Keith before. They’ll be okay.

Pressure flares in his head again, and it isn’t unpleasant but it’s insistent. He’d think harder about it but his eyelids are feeling heavy, and he yawns, rubs his face. 

_I should go_ , he’s thinking, but he’s too tired, it’s too hard to move. He might be stuck in place. He doesn’t realize he’s leaning forward to unzip his boots, and doesn’t remember hanging his jacket over the footboard, only knows that something makes him do it. It’s a warm squeeze in his head telling him that this is where he needs to be. 

It’s a narrow space but he curls himself in. He tries not to crush Keith under his body weight, treats him like a fragile thing, but he still leans his head against Keith’s chest. His heartbeat is slow, steady. Calm. _I should go_ , he thinks again, but the rhythm of Keith’s heartbeat is connecting with him somewhere deep, clicking into place inside his mind. And he wants to stay.

He’s falling asleep, relaxing for the first time in… he can’t remember. But it’s warm, his eyes are heavy, and there’s a soothing energy thrumming beneath his skin, coaxing him to let go. It feels familiar, all of it. The pressure in his head, and the connection to Keith, and he thinks he can sense Black nearby without even trying to. Just sense her, just know she’s there. 

But she’s such a part of him now, even when she’s Keith’s. He thinks part of himself is always going to be trapped there.

He times his breathing with Keith’s heartbeat. Inhales for three beats. Holds for four. When he lets it out he tries to feel for tension in his body and tries to relax. It makes him sink lower against Keith. It’s not a comfortable space and he wonders again if he should leave, but the pull of sleep is too strong. 

It’s a slow descent. He hears Keith’s heart and the soft hiss of oxygen, the occasional click of the IV pump. But soon he’s floating, can’t feel his body, and it’s black. 

Black like space, and he’s drifting, drifting….

It feels like solid ground beneath his feet, and always had. He knows it’s an illusion, that his brain has no other way to make sense of the void. He takes a step into the darkness and his eyes adjust. At first it’s nothingness, and he isn’t sure if it feels more expansive or more claustrophobic, but he begins to see the pinpricks of light, the hazy non-horizon, purple mist like storms. He turns a circle and feels solid ground but knows it isn’t there. 

His heart flutters, wild and panicked, pounding hard enough that he can feel it in his throat. Even though the space is wide open, he feels it against his body, the isolation of it pressing in. His ears are ringing and he presses his palm against his chest to feel for himself, make sure he’s not imagining the way his heart races. It’s thrashing beneath his ribs. 

“No,” he whispers, and turns in a circle. His jaw clenches tight, it aches up to his temples. No, no. His breathing is going shallow and he rubs at his chest again. “I got out.” 

But he’s shaking all over now, sweating. 

“I got out. I got out,” he says again, louder. Maybe it’s just a dream.

_Patience, patience_ , he tells himself, and closes his eyes. Breathes deeply through his nose. _Focus_.

“I’m out, I got out.”

Right?

It’s a game he used to play, unable to make sense of time, except it never ended well. _Focus focus focus._ He’d try to picture the last thing he could remember.

_Breathe. Breathe._

But before, it never mattered what he remembered. He’d still be stuck, he’d land on the same conclusions. He remembered the blinding white energy of death and blackness of the void and that was it. 

Didn’t he get out? 

He presses his hands to his face, covers his eyes. He remembers Keith. 

Keith.

Waking up with him, coming back to Earth. The scar on his face. He thinks he remembers putting it there. His stomach churns and he grinds his teeth. _Focus_.

Keith, and Atlas, and Allura. The hospital, the coma. 

He’s out. He’s out. He bites down hard to keep his teeth from chattering. It could be a dream. The trip to Earth could be a dream. The blunt fingernails of his left hand scratch against his scalp, and his right hand… 

His right hand.

Eyes open and he stares down. Platinum and white, bigger than the old one. It’s gleaming in the faint blue light from his socket. He flexes the fingers and rotates his wrist, turning the forearm in a full circle. 

This is new. 

His eyes sweep across the open space again. The familiarity is sickening, twists in his gut. He remembers getting a new arm. His hair is white now. Keith has a scar on his face. He got out. _He got out_. He remembers that, but not why he’s here again. And the arm could mean nothing; he isn’t sure how he’s supposed to know what’s real and what isn’t.

But he’s calming down. It’s enough that he can get a grip on himself. He rubs the space over his heart and feels that the frantic pounding has receded. Still fluttering, but doing better. _Breathe._

_I can’t be back here_ , he thinks. Breathes. _I’m not back here._

He remembers the crashes. Keith being rolled by on the stretcher, limp and frail, face swollen. The drawn, exhausted look in the doctor’s eyes, the way the smile lines deepened in her skin as she spoke. _We’ve put him in a coma._

_It was real._

The click of the IV pump and beginnings of stubble on his jaw. Steady cadence of his heartbeat. He thinks it really happened, but…

“Shiro?”

The voice is loud and close and echoes in Shiro’s head. 

He turns, and he’s still shaking, and Keith standing there in the darkness hits him like a physical blow. 

Keith’s eyes are darting wildly across the emptiness, pupils constricted, panicked like an animal. Feral. His face is scarred and there’s blood in his hair.

“Am I dead?” he asks. 

But Shiro is awake before he can answer. 

He gasps, and sits up, touches his chest and feels his heart. 

The hospital room looks different now, full of clean white morning light, and it hurts his eyes. It takes a minute to adjust and it throbs in his head. _Breathe. Breathe. It was a dream_.

Keith’s breaths are steady and soft, and his skin seems less sallow in the sunlight. _It’s perfectly safe_ , the doctor had said. He’ll be okay. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, and rubs his eyes. “What time is it?”

His brain isn’t fully awake as he cranes his neck to look at the clock and scrambles to grab his jacket off the end of the bed. He’s got so much to do today, places to be, business to take care of. It’s already late. He’s still blinking sleep from his eyes when he goes to stand and almost trips, not even noticing that someone had tucked a blanket over him until he realizes it’s tangled around his legs.

“Who the fuck…” 

At first he can’t process the information, and his spine protests as he stands, and he’s only conscious enough to be embarrassed that someone came in and saw him, but as he turns to grab his boots off the floor he sees her there. 

Krolia.

She’s asleep in the hospital recliner, her legs up on the windowsill. He isn’t sure if it’s more or lessawkward that it was her and not the medical staff. 

His hands rub over his face and he moves quietly, pulls his boots back on. She stirs in her sleep, her brow creases, her arms wrap tighter around herself. When he’s ready, he thinks he has a lot to ask her about, but now probably isn’t the time. 

He checks Keith one last time, smooths over the sheets on his bed where they’re rumpled, puts the safety rail back up. He drapes the blanket over Krolia, careful not to wake her. It feels wrong to leave, but he’s the Captain now. Other people need him. 

It’s purposeful, it’s good. He fixes his hair before he slips out the door. The cold air in the hallway settles wrong in his stomach, but he breathes deep and snaps the routine into place. He’s been through worse and Keith will be okay, it will just take time. Patience. 

And he knows now, after everything, that if he puts himself towards something useful he won’t have the room to fall apart. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Say hi on Tumblr!](https://monstersinthecosmos.tumblr.com/post/180727272969/zero-hour-chapter-1-voltron-legendary)


	2. Chapter 2

Time felt abstract in space. Days felt longer; maybe they were. It’s relative and he knows he can’t quantify how long they’ve been gone in a meaningful way. And yet he feels it in his bones, his _age_ , and wonders if it’s something people can see. They all look different and he knows it; it isn’t just that Keith’s taller, or that Shiro’s hair went white. He sees it in all of them. They each wear it in their faces that something _happened_.

It’s felt good to be so busy since they’ve been back on Earth, he’s been glad to fill his time with tasks. Busier than he’d expected but the last few years of his life have taught him that busy is good. Being so involved with the Garrison operations has been a helpful place to put his nervous energy. He’s grateful. Really.

Grateful, and yet he’s having trouble focusing today. He wants to play it off that he didn’t get enough sleep (he didn’t), or because he slept curled up in a knot (he did). He has excuses ready, balanced on his tongue, if anyone should ask, if anyone comments on the circles beneath his eyes. Staying cool about it is a role he’s willing to play, one he’s gotten quite good at.

But no one presses. 

There’s a stack of documents in front of him and a table full of officers, and someone’s put photos up on the screen of a destroyed outpost, and maybe they’re discussing security measures while they rebuild, but he’s not really listening. _Am I dead?_

He doesn’t resent being involved, he’s confident about that. He mulls it over as the slides change, taking stock of it. No, not resentful. This is where he wants to be. Just, maybe not today.

When was the last time he had a day off? A _real_ day off? He’d been joking last night, but isn’t it true that he could use a few days of sleep? He chuckles a little at the idea.

“Captain?”

The haze clears enough to realize no one is speaking, and they’re all watching him. The one holding the slide remote has her eyebrows raised at him. 

“Was there something you wanted to add?” she asks. Shiro flushes for a moment, like he’s being reprimanded, until he realizes she’s asking out of respect. His brain has to expand around the idea for a moment, and… actually, it makes him flush worse. 

“No, I’m sorry,” he gestures at the screen. “Continue.”

People are murmuring around the table, and it’s all about numbers and strategy and logistics. It’s a dim, windowless room and he gazes towards the wall, knowing intrinsically that the lions are that way. They’re settled in the hangar on the other side of the compound, by all appearances docile. But he can feel Black again, tingling in the back of his head.

He forces himself to stare at the soft orange glow of his tablet, trying to find his place. He’s tapping a nervous pattern into the thin glass edge with his thumb, and the numbers glaze together, and he doesn’t stop until someone touches the back of his hand.

“Shiro,” Sam whispers to him. He gives Shiro a little pat on his forearm. “Why don’t you go get some air? We’ve got it from here.”

There’s heat under his collar again as he adjusts to the idea that this isn’t a reprimand. There’s an echo of shame, embarrassed that Sam noticed how distracted he was. But he meets Sam’s eyes and there’s no judgement.

The meeting around them comes back into focus—numbers still, and a budget graph on the screen. Sam is probably right—this isn’t really Shiro’s thing, being here is a formality at this point. Still, it feels wrong to leave. Awkward.

“Shiro,” Sam says again, a little louder so the others hear. There’s a pause in the conversation. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

Bless him, honestly. Shiro straightens the documents on the table before him and clears his throat, stands, mutters a rushed apology to excuse himself. And then he’s in the hallway and down the stairs and halfway to the hangar before he realizes he’s still carrying all his paperwork. He stops and takes a deep breath, brushes his hair out of his face.

It was a dream. He’s out. But he flexes his new hand and tries to remember anyway.

He has to put his things down.

Okay, Shiro. Relax. He rolls his shoulders and reorients himself, heads towards his quarters. The building feels the same as it used to. It’s real, he’s pretty sure. When he turns a corner into an empty hallway, he drags his fingers against the wall like a kid, just to know it’s there. Cold and smooth the way it’s always been. The doubt rises in his throat, unsure whether it’s a relief or not. Yes, the same. Tangible and familiar. But there’s no way of knowing if it’s an illusion.

He doesn’t remember most of the walk back, but then he’s in his room, in the private for a moment, dropping documents onto his desk and continuing forward into the en suite. Splashing water on his face. Breathing, focusing.

“What do I know?” he whispers to himself. Focus. He remembers having surgery and getting a new arm, he remembers the trip to Earth. He remembers Sendak, remembers the lions crashing. _Coma_. But he thinks he remembers other things, too.

The broken blood vessel in Keith’s eye, and the tender purple bruises. He remembers that Black called to him.

Maybe she’s calling him now.

A normal person would return to Keith’s side, he figures. A good friend would do that. And yet he finds himself wandering in the other direction, towards the hangar. A better man would go sit with Keith’s mom and own up to her scrutiny. Because Keith has a scar on his face now, and Shiro remembers a few things. 

Black’s energy brushes softly against his skin as he approaches, engulfed in her shadow. It’s strong here, closer to her. It flutters in his head and if he doesn’t focus he thinks his ears will start ringing. In his periphery he can tell others are nearby, skittering around the corners, going about their business. They aren’t feeling what he’s feeling, though. They can’t possibly be. 

It’s a gentle force, hooking into him like claws, pulling him closer. He probes at her with his mind, the way he used to when she was his, and he can feel her there but she isn’t as obedient as she used to be. When she lowers herself to let him in, he thinks it’s her own decision. 

She feels less spacious than she used to. He isn’t sure if it’s because he was trapped with her for so long, or maybe an overhang of the journey to Earth, cooped up inside the lions. Dim and cold inside, and his fingers trail along the walls as he makes his way to the cockpit. Being there settles heavy in his gut.

“I’m out,” he says, out loud, to the empty space. He thinks maybe she purrs in agreement. 

It’s strange inside in the daylight. It’s shady, from the hangar, but there’s something about the gray sunlight that feels distinctly like Earth. He hesitates in the back, hanging in the doorway, but feels her inside again, guiding him closer. He comes around the front of the pilot’s chair, gazes through the window. 

He remembers Keith here, thinks he can still feel him. It had felt like a dream at the time, he knows. He hadn’t found his voice yet. But he remembers feeling Keith all around him in the void, hearing his voice. 

_Please come back_ , and the palpable crush of Keith’s grief trilling in the air. _I can’t do this without you._

For such a long time it had been a lifeline, a thing he could remember for context. He’d clung to it, and filed it neatly into his timeline. _What do I know? What’s the last thing I remember?_ It had been Zarkon, and death. And then Keith, and Keith, and Keith.

It’s tingling inside his head, enough that he’s dizzy, and he sits down. This used to be his place. 

Keith used to sit in here and talk to him. He’d hear it in fragments at first, unable to make sense of it. In the beginning he never knew what was real. Looking back, he can admit he still isn’t sure.

He could hear Keith, though. And he heard other things. Saw things. It’s been a long process, hard to wade through, but when he focuses he can make sense of it. 

Because he saw the clone, too. And he thinks he can sense the clone’s memories, like they’re hard-wired into their physical body, etched in somewhere. There have been quiet moments here and there where he’s been patient, been able to collate everything. He knows his memories of the clone in Black are real because the clone remembers them. Which must mean his memories of Keith are real. Which must mean…

When he was inside, though, everything felt real. His chest aches and his breath hitches at the thought that his escape was an illusion. He presses his flesh hand to his breast bone, digs his fingertips into the ridge of his clavicle. His pulse is frantic, struggling. The joke of it is that it doesn’t matter how many times he asks himself what he knows, how many memories he can codify. None of it matters if he can’t prove it.

Black purrs happily, a noise that isn’t really a noise, something that rumbles in his spine. 

With just him and Black and this rare moment of quiet, maybe it’s time to figure it out. He leans back in the seat, closes his eyes. Patience, patience. _Focus_. He can admit to himself, here, just him and Black, that he’s been avoiding this moment, afraid of it. Something about the scar on Keith’s face, and the way he behaved on their trip back to Earth. Distant and stiff, aloof where he usually wasn’t. The way he’d blushed that one time, all the way to the tips of his ears, when Shiro had caught him staring.

The clone’s memories are hazy and far away, but they’re in here. He breathes slowly through his nose. There’s sounds playing back, deep. Keith’s voice, the words blurring together like music in another room. _As many times as it takes_ , he’d said, and the clone’s heart had surged. 

Other things, though. It’s subtle, buried. He rubs his temples as if it can coax the memories out. _Focus_.

And it’s Keith there, beneath the clone’s hands. His eyes wild as he gasps for air, hair a mess on the pillow beneath him. 

Shiro shifts in his seat, uncomfortable for a moment, confused, but he doesn’t back away.

Keith, his back arched, and he’s whimpering, moaning. _Fuck Shiro, fuck, right there right there right there._

The memory isn’t Shiro’s, but he can draw on it just the same. His throat is going dry. They’re not his but they’re so vivid. Keith was hot and tight around him, and he was clawing at the clones back, interrupting the carnal energy with flashing red stripes of pain.

“Let me hear you, baby,” the clone said, leaning close to Keith’s ear. And fuck, the way his voice pitched. The breathy way it kicked up an octave. Shiro feels his face burning, ashamed of the way it affirms a long held fantasy.

“Shiro, please,” he was practically sobbing and his hands carded through the clones hair. “Please let me come, please. I’ve been good.”

And the clone is laughing, and kissing Keith’s sweaty hair, licking a line up the side of his face. “ _No_.”

There’s a familiarity between them, a level of intimacy that seems practiced. It’s cold beneath Shiro’s skin as the truth of it dawns on him. _It’s not the only time_. He grits his teeth and something hums in his new arm, like he’s activated a fight or flight response, but another deep breath eases everything down. _Remember_.

The clone’s head between Keith’s legs, and Keith’s wrists are bound with his own t-shirt, held tight to the wall behind him. 

“You have the prettiest little asshole,” the clone says, and he’s pulling Keith apart with his thumbs. Keith rolls his hips and the sounds falling out of his mouth are the filthiest thing Shiro has ever heard. The clone leans in, teases around Keith’s rim with the tip of his tongue, the touches feather light and probably infuriating, until Keith is crying out, begging.

“Please sir, please,” he’s whining and beginning to shake. “Please fuck me, please please I need you.”

There’s a nip at the flesh of Keith’s cheek, enough to make him yelp and flinch, and then they’re licking into him, and Shiro can feel it like he was really there. He feels the way Keith goes lax at first as they lay broad, warm strokes over his hole. Then the way he clenches around their tongue when they push in, and he’s so soft and wet inside.

The interesting thing is that Shiro can tell the clone was just as desperate. 

And it’s uncomfortable but it makes sense. He opens his eyes to the gray, dingy light from the hangar streaming in through Black’s windows. He’s wanted to think of the clone as some type of invasion, an infection. Maybe he hasn’t wanted to connect to the truth.

_He was me_.

It’s embarrassing suddenly to realize that Black must know all this, that she’s linked to him and remembering with him. He’s not sure what type of moral compass she has, if these sordid human affairs even matter. Maybe it’s not important to her, maybe she doesn’t judge.

He reaches to touch the controls, just to keep his hands busy, not intending to do anything. _He was me_. There’s an undercurrent in the memories; it isn’t just the sex. He can feel the clone’s thoughts, his emotions. _His love_. 

Christ, what a mess.

Because next it’s Keith on his knees, and they’re drilling into him from behind, their chest fused to his back. Keith is wheezing for breath and crushing their forearm with his cute little hands, and they’ve got him in a headlock. But Keith has a safeword, they know this, and he can gesture if his voice is gone. But he’s taking it. He’s taking it so, so well. In the present, Shiro feels it pooling in his gut, and in the memory he’s painting Keith’s insides white. 

“I think it’s real,” he whispers. And he feels it in the back of his head again, like he had before. Stronger this time, but it’s comforting.

Keith had spoken to him from the cockpit, Shiro remembers. And he’d spent nights in here, curled in the corner and bawling, because he thought it was the only place no one would hear him. Shiro had tried so hard to connect with him, to comfort him, but didn’t know how to. 

He’d heard, though.

The lights on the console glow softly in front of him, not completely turned on, but enough to add color to the room. It makes the hair rise on Shiro’s arm. 

_Am I dead?_

“You’re not dead,” his voice is scratchy and unlike himself. He clears his throat and tries again, louder. “Keith. Can you hear me? You’re not dead.”

Black rumbles, contented.

“I’ll get you through this.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!! I was gonna stick to a weekend schedule for this fic but I'm too worried I'll be an unproductive mess over S8, so here we go!

It’s getting dark out by the time he comes back inside, and it makes the the yellow lamplight in the doctor’s office feel warmer. Cozy. He’s tense when he first knocks at the door, but he can’t resist the calming energy. It’s not like the other medical offices in the Garrison. It feels more like a home. It’s how he remembers growing up. 

“Can I ask you something?” he’s hovering by the doorway, holding the frame with his prosthesis. There’s a moment of silence as she stares at him, sizing him up maybe, and he’s almost ready to bail when she adjusts her glasses and puts her tablet down. 

“Come in, Captain,” she says, and rises from behind her desk. She gestures towards a sitting area in the corner of the room. “Would you like tea?”

In his own mind, he hears himself decline, but it’s not what comes out his mouth as he sits down on her couch. She fusses with an electric kettle and he picks at stray lint on his pants.

“It looks like you got some sleep,” she says a few minutes later, and there’s a knowing look that Shiro doesn’t really like as she hands him a mug and takes a seat across from him. He’s only able to offer a wry smile before he brings the tea closer to his face and breathes in the steam.

Beat of silence. 

“What did you want to ask?”

Being on Earth and talking about any of is surreal. He’s not sure where to start. He almost sips his tea to buy time but she raises an eyebrow at him.

“It’s hot.”

Oh. Right. In his right hand. He laughs nervously and puts the mug down on the coffee table between them. 

“Did…” he clears his throat. “Did you know we have connections to our lions?”

“I don’t really know the ins and outs, but I’ve heard.”

He gestures into the air, a little bit helpless. “I don’t know how to explain it. It’s psychic. We can feel each other.”

“All right,” she leans back in her seat like she’s waiting for him to continue.

“I, um,” why is it so awkward to explain? “I guess I’m wondering if it’s possible for Keith to still be connected to his lion. From his coma.”

Her head tilts to the side. Not understanding the question, okay. He wipes his hand over his thigh and tries again.

“I had a dream, I think,” he examines the pattern on the area rug. “But maybe it wasn’t a dream.”

It’s occurring to him that he hasn’t talked about any of this out loud, to anyone. Warmth spreads across his cheeks, then down beneath his collar.

“Captain?”

His eyes focus and unfocus on the rug before he looks up to meet her gaze. “I’m sorry, I just, ah…” 

“Why wouldn’t it have been a dream?”

Where to begin. 

“Did you know I died?” 

There’s a tight smile but she doesn’t answer. 

“It was this… whole thing.”Words tangle in his throat. “But I was still connected to my lion when I died. And I’m wondering if it’s possible that Keith is still connected.” 

She blows on the top of her tea. “And what if he is? Is this a bad thing?”

“I’m not sure.“

“From what I understand, connecting to your lion saved your life.”

So she does know. He reaches for his tea as an excuse to look away. 

“I don’t know why I’m asking you,” he says. It comes out in a rush and he squeezes the bridge of his nose. “Sorry, I mean. That was rude, I don’t mean it like that. I just mean. I think I know he’s there. I’m not sure what you can do about it.”

“He’s where?”

Her patience skitters across the top of his skin for a moment and it feels like the walls closing in a little bit. He remembers the scrutiny before he went to Kerberos, the way the psych service offices felt like a cold threat. 

It’s different now, though, right? The Garrison doesn’t feel as rigid as it used to, opened up to more reality. Maybe his accolades in space have given him the freedom to be honest. 

“It’s a place,” his brows knit together. “I was there. When I was dead.” 

“And you think Keith is there?”

“That’s… yeah. I don’t know. I guess that’s what I’m asking you.”

“Well, to be honest with you, Captain, I don’t know very much about it.”

His face is burning. “Shiro.”

“Hmm?”

“Please call me Shiro?”

She smiles at him and sips her tea. Her fingers drum an idle rhythm into the mug. “I can tell you about brain activity and consciousness, but I don’t know how these lions work. Can you tell me more?”

Hmm.

He finally sips his tea, also. It’s Bergamot. His mom used to drink this. 

“It isn’t magic, if that’s what you’re thinking.” It comes out sharper than he intends, more defensive. “It’s the Altean technology. The lions can sense us and our thoughts. They always know where we are.”

“And is this a two-way connection?”

His head tilts and he feels Black on the property somewhere, buzzing up his spine. “Yes.”

“So, you were connected to your lion when you died?”

Chills rise up on his arm; hearing someone else say it seems like a violation somehow and he has to breathe through his teeth to stay calm. “Yeah. It… yeah.”

When he first came into the office he could see the final colors of the sunset outside, but now the windows behind her are completely dark. He stares at a spot past her for a moment, trying to let himself unfold in the silence. There’s anger curling at his edges and he isn’t sure he can explain it. Not angry at her, so much. That would be wrong. But she’s so serene, so open. It isn’t what he expected and ruins all his excuses to keep his shit to himself the way he usually does.

“I’m sorry,” he finally says. He pushes his bangs out of his face. “It’s not easy to talk about.” 

“That’s all right.” Calming. “What you went through was a trauma.”

Right.

“I didn’t mean to spring it on you, if you aren’t ready to discuss it.”

He rubs the back of his neck. “I didn’t think of it as a trauma.”

“It was though, wasn’t it?” 

Or just another fuckin day at this point, right? He laughs under his breath because it’s too big to explain. He supposes he hasn’t worried about things like _trauma_ in a long time. The Black Paladin didn’t have time for trauma and the Captain of the Atlas doesn’t, either. 

“Is this why you’re concerned for Keith?” That her voice is gentle and sincere seems to lessen the blow of the question. 

He puts the mug back down, leans his elbows on his knees. Head in hands, eyes closed. Black is out there somewhere, waiting. 

“I don’t know how long I was gone,” he says. He pictures the confusion in the beginning, the sensory deprivation. Nothing made sense. “It felt… like a really long time.”

“Oh?”

“A really long time.”

His new hand is cool on his face, it feels good. He presses his palms to his eyes. “I was there again. Last night. I don’t think it was a dream but I can’t shake the idea that I’m not even here.”

“What do you mean? Not here?”

“I used to see things. When I was dead. And I don’t know how to prove to myself that I’m alive again. I don’t know. Maybe I imagined that I got out. Maybe none of this is real.”

“I see.”

He peeks at her through his fingers. “You must think I’m crazy.”

Warm smile again, genuine. It makes him relax a little. “Not at all, Shiro.”

“It’s okay if you do. I think I’m crazy myself, half the time. I can’t always figure out what’s real.” 

“And understanding more about Keith will help alleviate this?” 

He can’t help the single beat of laughter that explodes from this chest. “I don’t know. There’s sort of a micro and macro approach to consider.” He wants her to laugh with him but she doesn’t. “But. Yeah, I think so.”

“And it will convince you whether or not it was a dream?” 

“Well. Insofar as we can assume that this entire situation isn’t a dream. Sure.”

The smile she gives him is amused, but not condescending. Warm but not pitying. Thank god. She takes her glasses off and sets them down on the arm of her chair. 

“Well, brain activity is a funny thing. There’s a hundred degrees between being fully alert, awake like you and I are right now, and, say, complete brain death. And there’s things like vegetative states to plot in there, or sleeping, or daydreaming, dissociating, meditating.”

“Right.”

“So Keith right now is somewhere in the middle. His brain is very much still functioning, but let’s say we’ve put his consciousness to rest. His autonomic nervous system is in tact; he’s breathing on his own, regulating his own body temperature, that sort of thing. But it’s more than just sleeping. He isn’t dreaming. He isn’t responding to external stimulus.”

He chews the inside of his lip as he thinks it over.

“When I died, my lion retained my consciousness.”

A raised eyebrow. Nonchalant sip of tea.

“I was in the lion, but… I didn’t have a body. Keith does. And. I wonder if it’s a problem that he’s tethered to his own body somehow. Or if he can become… detached.”

“If the silver cord can break.”

“If the…” he scratches the back of his head. “The what?”

“Old religions believed it was the thing connecting your soul to your physical form. People claimed to visibly see it when they would practice astral projection.”

“Do you believe that?”

She chuckles. “Well. I didn’t back in my undergrad days when I was studying psychology. But I think there’s something to it with these lions of yours.”

“You studied psychology?”

Her laughter blooms into something louder, she even does a small toss of her head. “Well, I wanted to be a psychiatrist. But the Garrison recruited me before I could start med school, and…” her hands gesture into the air. “It turned into something else. I guess I still have a bit of it in me. It’s been helpful since the invasion.”

“How?”

The tone shifts, calms. Reverent now. “Well. We lost so many people. And despite my opinion that our mental well being is integral to our success as an institution, even as a species, it hasn’t been anyone’s priority to rebuild the psych staff.”

Her cozy office makes more sense now. He feels sort of sheepish. “So you’re doubling as everyone’s shrink?”

“Not everyone. And, please do take my words with a grain of salt. I didn’t finish my schooling for it, after all,” she winks, and takes one more sip of tea, and then the mug is empty and she’s placing it down on the table. “But you can come talk to me if you ever need to. Can I assume you didn’t seek counsel in space?”

Does Coran count? Shiro almost laughs. He reaches for his tea; his is almost empty, as well, and guilt flushes over him that he’s wasted her time. He should get back. 

“So… do you think this silver cord can be broken?”

She takes a moment to think about her answer, and she taps a finger against her bottom lip. “Well. People would describe it after near death experiences. It’s the thing that kept them from going into the light, maybe. Whether or not the light is a metaphor, I can’t say.”

Shiro swallows hard and doesn’t comment.

“But it seems to me that there’s an… interconnectedness at play here. You said you can still connect with your lion, correct?”

He nods.

“And that’s Keith’s lion now?”

“Yeah.”

“I wonder if it’s more of a web. The three of you share something.” 

Last sip of tea, and it’s almost cold now. He puts the cup down. 

“So you’re worried that Keith’s time with the lion might be traumatic, like yours was. But maybe you can help him through it. Maybe you can go to him.”

Hearing someone else say it puts a knot in his throat. He nods his head, obedient. 

“I’m sure the three of you can figure it out. Three is a very stable number.”

He wipes his hand on his pants, nervous, and stands before he realizes he’s doing it. “Thank you,” he’s mumbling and smoothing his jacket down over his hips, blushing. “This was really helpful. I should head out.”

She’s saying something reassuring, inviting him to come back any time, reminding him to get some sleep and not to rustle Keith too much, and he’s nodding, thanking her again, almost stumbling out of the room in haste. 

And the hallways are cold again, shining and sterile the way the castle had been, not at all like the office. _Like a home_. He winds himself through the hallways in a daze, on autopilot, only vaguely sensing the quiet as he gets to Keith’s floor. He can’t imagine the Garrison being strict about visiting hours anymore, not after everything, not when the medical wing held on by a thread, but it seems like people are gone. 

_Other people sleep, you know_ , he scolds himself. Other people sleep, and other people aren’t the Captain of the Atlas, free to roam the compound at his own will. 

Still, he knocks softly at Keith’s door, just in case, and gives it a beat before entering. His eyes sweep around the room and it’s similar to how it was before. Soft moonlight and faint glow of monitors. Krolia’s gone, though, and Shiro feels bad that he hasn’t said hi to her. He’ll make sure to see her in the morning.

The door shuts behind him and he comes forward slowly. Sets the safety rail down and sits on the edge of the bed.

Keith looks a little better; his skin is still pale, but the bruises are lighter. Someone has changed his bandages and washed his hair. It’s still going in every direction on the pillow, but it’s soft and clean, no more blood. Someone gave him a shave.

He feels Black in his head again, like last night. And he remembers how tired he was, how he’d curled up on top of Keith, touched his face. They’ve always been affectionate with each other, and Shiro’s aware that he can be touchy. But it had been like he wasn’t in control, like he was being guided. He wonders if she’s doing it again.

“Relax,” he mutters to her out loud. He needs a minute to adjust to all of this. It’s probably good that Krolia left.

Because Keith is lying still, gone somewhere else, and Shiro remembers the clone’s memories again. And it’s not about the lust, the heat. It’s the quiet afterwards, the tired kisses. Keith’s hands tracing over Shiro’s scars, unfazed. His voice in the dark, worn out from begging, saying _I’m gonna sleep in here, okay?_

It’s not about lust. It’s about love. Shiro scrubs a hand over his face and feels fuckin nauseous.

Last night, when he laid down in Keith’s bed, it was half-delirious, sleep deprived, driven by their lion. It was to be close to someone, to his best friend in the world. But doing so now feels awkward, he feels stiff. There’s guilt inside, and the ghosts of memories stuck to his skin. He thinks about what Keith has done with this body, and the way he’s withdrawn himself since Shiro came into it. 

The room feels so heavy, though. He can’t stop himself. The idea of it tingles, cerebral, and he’s curled up in the empty space again before he realizes it. Keith’s body is so warm.

He slots his fingers into Keith’s and holds their hands to his chest.

“Where are you?” he whispers.

Black’s energy flares and he takes a deep breath. Counts in for seven, holds for seven. Lets go. His hand is going clammy in Keith’s. Keith’s doctor suggested that meditating was another level of consciousness, and he counts his breaths, pictures the silver cord. He wonders if he can get there in a half-state.

His heart skips, he hears it loud in his own ears. It makes his breathing stutter. It’s been a long time since he’s done this to himself, and it’s like his body knows it. There’s a mess of sensation in his mind, remembering being captive. That he’d do this to rest, because he couldn’t be all the way asleep. That he’d do it to escape, so that he wouldn’t have to live there for a little while.

_Don’t think about that right now. Focus_.

In and out, and he’s relaxing. If he stays very still he won’t be able to feels his limbs soon. In and out and patient. It felt like years in the astral plane, it should be easy to get back there. Familiar.

He keeps his eyes closed, and he can still hear the room around him, but it’s starting to feel different. The heat rolling off Keith’s body is going sharp, acidic. It’s full of fear, on the edge of panic. Shiro breathes deep, focuses. Follows it. 

They’re not moving; Keith’s body is still next to him, but he knows he’s connecting to Black. The anxiety is thick and presses like a cage around Shiro’s lungs. He has to focus hard to keep his breathing even. It’s suffocating and his survival instincts tell him to open his eyes, to run, get away from the danger, but _Patience. Focus._ Stay with it, it’s an illusion.

He’s in the room but not. His body feels far away, on mute, the ambient noise from building around them muffled like it’s under water. Yet his feet are on solid ground, or so his brain says.

It’s dark when he opens his eyes. Not the hospital room. It must be the astral plane, he thinks, because he doesn’t have another explanation, but it doesn’t look like it used to.

The fear presses in all around him.

“Keith?”

His voice causes a ripple in the atmosphere, a quick wave of confusion to relieve the tension, just for a moment. It lets him take a deep breath of air. 

“Are you here?” he calls out. He takes a step forward but it’s so dark. Black. No stars. The glow of his shoulder socket is enough light to see his body, his legs, but that’s about it. Another step, and he reaches out into the darkness, but it’s empty.

“You’re all right, Keith,” he says. “I’m here with you. We’re in the astral plane. Can you hear me?”

Keith doesn’t answer, but somehow Shiro _knows_. It throbs gently inside his skull, this knowing. Unquestionable. He’s here in the dark somewhere, frightened and confused. _Interconnectedness_ , the doctor had said. 

Shiro presses a palm against his breast bone, trying to feel the rhythm of his own breath. He remembers this. The beginning, in the dark, unable to make sense of the void. There’s no way of knowing how much time actually went by; all Shiro knows is that it felt like forever. The sensation of being back in it pulls his nerves tight and he feels his heart beating under his ribs, getting faster.

“Stay calm, “ he whispers to himself. “It’s not about you.”

Not about the abject terror he felt when he first died, not the tiny dark cell where the Galra kept him. It’s a struggle to get his heartbeat even again and he scolds himself as he rubs his hand back and forth on his chest. “It’s not about you. Get your shit together.”

Deep breath. 

“Keith, I’m here,” he tries again. “Breathe with me.”

He counts the breaths out loud, holds, exhales through his mouth. Even though he knows Keith is out there in the dark, he doesn’t have any indication of where, how far. Can’t hear him. But the acrid feeling of anxiety begins to ease down.

Again, and again. He keeps his hand on his chest to feel his bones expanding. And… it’s not real. They’re not really here. He remembers realizing he didn’t need to breathe in this place, and how that had been his test to remember where he was. But it’s a ritual, it’ll help. He knows. 

The panic is receding softly, in tiny steps like a tide. Shiro even feels calmer, himself; his heart isn’t racing the way it had been. His eyes ache as he tries to adjust, and it seems like the darkness is receding, too. After a little while he’s able to make out the subtle purple clouds, the far away stars. 

Calm. 

He almost starts another rep, his voice hanging there and ready for it, but he makes out the gleam of Keith’s white armor in the dark. It’s picking up the subtle blue light of Shiro’s arm, and his mouth clicks shut.

“Keith,” he says. The instinct is joy, relief; it’s bubbles inside like something electric, but he presses it down to stay relaxed. _Keep the stimulus to a minimum,_ she’d said, but does that count here? He’s not sure and doesn’t want to test it.

Because… Keith looks scared. He’s cross-legged on the ground, hands over his face. Shiro can hear his heavy breathing and the way it shakes as he tries to control it. No need to startle him.

“Hey,” he comes closer, slowly. Keith doesn’t uncover his face. “We’re okay. I’m here. It’s safe. We’re okay.”

He kneels when he’s close enough and reaches for Keith’s shoulder. It seems like a success that he doesn’t flinch.

“Keep breathing with me,” he says, and pulls in closer. Their hips are touching and he puts his arm around Keith’s shoulders. “One, two, three…” he counts them through it. The tension slowly leaves Keith’s body, and he’s slumping over, leaning into the embrace. Shiro’s right hand sneaks under the shield of Keith’s arms so that he can press his palm flat to the breastplate. There’s a click of the alloys making contact, and he can’t feel the subtleties of Keith’s body heat the way he’d like to, but this is okay. They pull in tight together and keep breathing.

He stops counting out loud, but keeps the same pace. Their bodies expand and collapse in sync with each other. In, hold, out. Keith drops one of his hands to hold the prosthesis, squeezing it closer.

And there’s a sense of intimacy between them, perhaps deeper than Shiro expected. Keith hasn’t been this unguarded in months, since before Shiro left. But it makes sense, he thinks.

There’s memories again. Holding hands under the table in the mess hall. The clone confessing stories about the gladiator pit. Squinting through the shower water as they washed Keith’s hair. It’s love.

_I love you_.

Pain throbs in his heart. Guilt, more like. He closes his eyes and leans his head against Keith’s, breathes through the jolt of realization. 

This is new to him, this idea that something happened between them. He hasn’t spent time with it the way Keith has, doesn’t know how to feel. But Keith. _Keith._

He feels small in Shiro’s arms, vulnerable in a way he rarely shows. He’s never come in for comfort like this before. The pain is sharp and reckless shredding through Shiro’s insides. _He must miss this._

It had probably become so normal, this closeness. Deep breath through his nose and he pries into the memories the best he can, struggling for some semblance of control over which ones he sees. There’s the lingering hugs before Keith would leave on Blade missions, then the way the clone would touch his face and make sure he wasn’t injured when he returned. Waking up together and feeling safe. 

His real memories settle on the trip back to Earth, how Keith was having trouble looking him in the eyes. They really should talk about it.

Time passes in silence and more stars come out. He rubs Keith’s shoulder in a comforting rhythm, kisses the top of his head. He’s not sure if that’s allowed, but it feels like the right thing to do.

Eventually Keith sits up straighter and wipes his face with the back of his hand. The other still holds Shiro’s, close to his chest. There are occasional hitches in his breath, but he seems a lot better. 

“You good?” Shiro asks. He knows it’s rhetorical, a big question. But Keith seems to understand that. He looks up, into Shiro’s eyes for the first time out here. No broken vessels like the real world, but he’s bloodshot, worn out. His eyelashes are clumped together. 

“Stay with me a little longer?” he asks. Voice is hoarse, worn out like he’s been screaming.

“Yeah,” Shiro rubs his shoulder again and squeezes his hand. “Of course. Anything you need.”

Keith swallows hard and looks away, leans his head against Shiro’s chest. His body curls up, as close to Shiro as he can get without climbing on top of him.

“I…” his free hand is fidgeting like he’s struggling for words. “I need you.”

Oh.

There’s anxiety around them again, but it’s quick, a flash. Shiro shushes him and rubs his back to make it go away.

Keith is shaking. “Is that okay?” 

God, if his heart could shatter. He sighs. “Yeah,” rubs Keith’s back, pulls their bodies together. “Yeah, it’s okay. Come here.”

He’s not sure where it comes from; maybe the memories are branded into the body itself, playing over and over in its veins like grooves on a record. It’s been hard to understand that part. But it’s like his body knows, and the closeness feels right.

Black is thrumming around them, warm. She’s pleased, she must approve.

Even with Keith calm and still, Shiro’s mind is restless. It’s being back here, that’s not even a question. It’s the bad memories and confusion, uncertainty. Black’s reassurance settles over him, enfolds him, like she’s trying to tell him they’re safe, and he has to keep reminding himself to trust her. 

_What do I know?_ he wonders, and shifts his weight. Keith slumps over, rests his head in Shiro’s lap. He knows he’s out. He thinks so, anyway. He knows Keith is alive and safe. He knows he came here on his own. He tries to remember if Black ever lied to him when he was in a dreamstate, because she always seems to have his back when he tries to list out the facts. He tells himself she wouldn’t lie, because he’s holding onto his last thread here, and he doesn’t think he can handle it if she is. 

He knows he’s out. He knows inducing a coma prevents brain swelling. Old religions believed in a silver cord. His mother drank Bergamot tea. 

But he also knows that Keith was fucking the clone, and that he has a mole on his inner thigh where his skin is soft. He knows what Keith’s cum tastes like and knows he likes to be called _kitten_. 

“Shiro?”

He pets Keith’s hair. “Yeah?”

Keith’s knees pull up to his chest and his voice is a little muffled by Shiro’s thigh. “I think I heard you.”

“…before?”

He nods. “You were in Black, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Does that mean you heard me, too? When… you were here?”

He’s done such a good job at calming himself, he thinks, and now his heart is taking off again. 

“Yeah, Keith. I heard you.” 

“Where are we? Like, for real.”

“You were in an accident,” he pets Keith’s hair more and scratches lightly behind his ear. “We’re at the Garrison, you’re in a coma.”

“Coma.” 

“Everyone’s safe,” Shiro says, before Keith can try to ask. “You saved the world, you know.”

Keith huffs out a little laugh. “Yeah, right.”

“No, you did.”

His body uncurls, unfolds, he rolls onto his back to look up at Shiro’s face. “Really?”

“Yes, really, punk.”

Shiro is relieved to see the smile that comes out for a moment. He has more questions, Shiro can tell, but he also looks so exhausted. His hand moves against Shiro’s, thumb tracing over the hard line where the MCP joints would’ve been. 

“How long has it been?”

“Couple days.”

“It… feels like a really long time.”

His eyes sting a little as he nods. “I know.”

They hold eye contact for a moment, and he isn’t sure if it feels longer because time always feels longer here, or if it’s the unspoken tension between them. Keith’s brow creases and his mouth opens like he’s going to say something, but then he pulls his hand back to himself, and shakes his head, sits up. He combs through his hair with his fingers and scoots away to put some distance between them.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “This place has me… feeling kinda weird.”

“I know. It’s okay.”

He wants to reach out, touch Keith’s knee, or his arm, his jaw. Anything, and he’s not sure if he should. Keith’s fear is still around them in the void, and it’s not the same toxic panic as it had been before, but something softer. Nervous and lovesick and afraid of rejection.

Shiro sighs and takes a look around them. It’s expansive and glittery and should be beautiful, but all it does is hurt his stomach.

“We should talk,” he says. Keith’s eyebrows come together and he looks so _young_. Shiro chews on his lip for a moment. “About what happened. While I was gone.”

_I want you to own me. Do whatever you want._

Keith’s face goes red and he almost looks away.

“Okay,” he says, and nods his head. “Yeah, okay. We should.”


	4. Chapter 4

Shiro remembers dying.

He reminds himself of it often, to establish the timeline. He was a pilot, a prisoner, a Paladin of Voltron. And he died. And he was saved.

But it’s a mantra most of the time. Empty words. His own death is a cold, easy fact now, one that he glosses over and checks off the list. Because remembering it, really remembering, and spending time with it, always puts him somewhere he doesn’t want to be.

Focus.

Bright white light and it hurt his eyes, and he was being drawn from his body, expanding outward until he couldn’t feel anymore. Part of him knows there was pain, aware that it was too much to comprehend. There’s only so much you can process. But it was pain, and light. Then the darkness.

He’d thought his cell was dark. He remembers how often he’d pace the halls of the castle at night, because he needed the open space and the light. He remembers blushing and feeling childish when Coran gave him a freaky bioluminescent plant to keep in his room. But it had helped. 

Now, he thinks he can handle darkness. He doesn’t think he knows how to explain that that void wasn’t just _dark,_ that it was _nothing._ He doesn’t know how long it was only nothing, until color started to appear. He came back changed. 

“Let’s take a walk,” he says to Keith, and stands. He holds out his hand to help Keith up. Keith watches cautiously. 

“Where?” 

“I want to show you something.”

Keith seems suspicious but he goes along. He stays silent at Shiro's side as they start off in one direction, occasionally sneaking glances at him through his messy hair. 

“The sensory deprivation here used to make me hallucinate,” Shiro says. They’re walking, but going nowhere. Nothing gets closer, or further. They’re stuck in one place. “And then I would remember I was dead, and it seemed like… I knew I’d imagined my body here, and imagined feeling solid ground under my feet… I knew it was the only way for my mind to make sense of what was happening.” 

“Yeah,” Keith’s voice cracks in his throat. 

“But then I started realizing I could fill the space here with whatever I needed,” Shiro explains. The effort of it rumbles in his temples, aches in his jaw, he feels it expanding from his chest. It’s been a while, but it’s working. The ground beneath them is becoming uneven and he can hear the crunch of gravel. “And it got easier.” 

Keith stops and looks around, and it’s hard to pinpoint the moment it switches over, but Shiro sees the dappled sunlight on his face, and smells the sea air, and it charges against his skin to see this place again. 

“Where are we? What is this place?” Keith asks.

“I’m not sure,” Shiro says, and they keep walking. They’re on a road now, narrow and winding through the trees. “I used to dream about it when I was a kid, so… I don’t know, I guess it’s what my mind came up with while I was here.” 

Keith’s armor looks incongruous now and Shiro is sure his Garrison uniform does, too. He sets his mind on that next, so that when Keith turns to look at him again he stops, utterly confused. 

“How did you do it?” Even as shy as he’s feeling, he reaches out and touches the soft fabric of Shiro's hoodie, like he needs to know if it’s really there. 

“I realized that everything in this space is an illusion,” Shiro says. He rubs at the back of his neck for a moment, not sure how to say it. “And I guess I figured out how to take control of it. And be somewhere…” he looks around them and sighs, still feeling the heaviness of all of it, “...better.”

He shrugs, and tries to smile to break the tension, but it only comes out looking sad. He gestures and they continue walking in silence, downhill and towards the sound of water. 

“You won’t be here as long as I was,” he says. They turn a curve and he sees the beach through a break in the trees. “But you should try this. It’ll help.”

“Shiro, I…” 

Shiro doesn’t look at him but takes his hand as they reach the end of the road. It’s a sandy dead end, full of potholes, and the gravel is more and more broken until it’s completely gone. Then it’s just a dirt path through the woods. 

“I would get lost here,” he looks up at the canopy of leaves and the way the sunlight glitters through. “I kept forgetting what was real.” 

Keith squeezes his hand. 

“And you know, now that I’m out, I keep… I don’t know.”

They stop walking for a moment to face each other. When Shiro wasn’t looking, Keith’s Voltron gear had shifted to regular clothes. It makes Shiro’s heart bloom with pride. Keith stares hard into his eyes but waits for him to continue, doesn’t try to push. 

Shiro rubs his forehead. “My head is all fucked up, I don’t know.”

“You used to say that a lot,” Keith says, and swallows hard. “Well, I mean. Not you.” 

God, is he wondering if Shiro is really Shiro this time? 

“I have to focus. All the time. On reality,” it’s hard to say out loud. Maybe they should’ve talked about it sooner, but at least Keith will understand here. “Because I don’t always know.”

He tries to smile again, knowing he’s not doing a good job, and then turns to continue down the path. Keith doesn’t let go of his hand. 

“I’ve been remembering some things, though,” Shiro says. “I think maybe the clone’s memories are, I don’t know. Embedded in this body. But I don’t know what’s real.” 

He thinks of Keith in his room in the castle, bent over the clones lap. He’s counting the spanks out loud, panting between them as the Galra hand smacks into the meat of his ass. He’s grinding his hardon into the clone’s thigh and the clone keeps pulling his hair and telling him not to. 

“So maybe you could help me fill in some of the gaps.” 

Keith’s hand feels clammy in Shiro's, and Shiro sneaks a sideways glance to check for a reaction. He’s watching the path, his hair falling down into his face. 

“We’re here,” Shiro says. He points ahead towards the break in the trees to where the path ends at a rocky beach. When they step out of the woods he can see the full sky, hazy and orange and with sunset, but the stars are still out, as overwhelming as they’d been space. 

“This is really nice,” Keith says softy. “I thought I was gonna be in the dark forever.”

“Yeah. I know.”

Their pace slows as they step out onto the sand. It’s mostly pebbles and they both wobble as the ground shifts beneath them. Keith finally lets go of Shiro so that he can stuff his hands into his pockets, and he continues to watch his footing. 

Shiro stops them midway to the water, gesturing towards a sand-smooth piece of driftwood. 

“Here,” he says. “Let’s stay here awhile.” 

Shiro watches Keith’s face as they sit. He’s staring ahead at the sea with an expression that would be unreadable to anyone else. But Shiro gets it. He’s pale and gaunt and it’s clearer out here in the light. It looks like he hasn’t been sleeping. 

Which is ridiculous, Shiro knows. Sleep doesn’t matter here. Time doesn’t matter. But the mind is powerful. 

“I started to remember some things,” he says again to break the silence, and Keith starts. His cheeks flush pink and he looks down at his hands in his lap. 

“Oh.”

Yeah, oh. He’s not sure how to word the next part. _I know you were fucking_ is too abrasive. 

“I, um,” shit. “I saw you two together.” 

“Oh.” 

There’s something regressive about the way he’s withdrawing into himself. Shiro doesn’t want to blame him, wants to be patient, but it’s so much like how Keith had been when they met. 

“Keith?” 

“Mmm.”

He touches Keith’s shoulder. “Would you look at me, please?” 

He doesn’t expect the consummate heartbreak on Keith’s face, but it wavers after a moment, rearranges into defensive frustration. 

“I mean, what do you want me to say?” His hands are fidgeting in his lap. 

_Relax,_ he wants to say, or _It’s not like that_ , but it’ll just push him further. Keith is picking at his cuticles and Shiro takes his hand to stop him. 

“I just, uh… I want you to help me remember. Unless you don’t want me to remember.”

Keith’s free hand pinches the bridge of his nose. He hangs his head. “It isn’t like that.”

“Like what?” 

“It’s not that I don’t want you to. I just feel really fucked up about the whole thing.”

He waits, but Keith doesn’t continue. 

“Tell me,” he finally says. “Talk to me.”

Keith steals a glance, nervous, but turns back. “I should’ve known he wasn’t you.”

They sit in silence for a while, letting it take up space between them. It feels like it’s sunset for a long time, but Shiro remembers he made it that way. It’s calming, the way the colors hit the water. 

It’s true that he used to dream about his place. He isn’t sure when it started, and can never figure out if it’s based on somewhere real, like something he can barely recall from childhood. It could be that the dreams are so old he can’t tell the difference. 

Before he died he would see it sometimes. He’d be walking, wandering the twisty roads in the woods, and finding the beach was always a surprise. Like he’d been there forever and knew every inch, but had never seen the water somehow. Finding it is like a dawning in his soul, something clicking into place. 

Eventually it taught him to lucid dream; he’d see it and remember, he’d know he was not in this realm. His body was somewhere else. But most of the time he would try to stay. 

“He asked me how many times I was gonna save his life,” Keith says, and it cracks through the silence. He's starting to breathe heavy again and the sky starts to go dark, but Shiro wills it away. It takes a greater deal of focus than the usual illusion, their two minds struggling for control. It wavers like someone flicking a light switch, and there’s a flash where he sees Keith’s armor again before he’s back in the soft t-shirt, the torn jeans.

He lets go of Keith’s hand so that he can rub his back, try to ease the tension away. It threatens again near the horizon, like a storm approaching 

“It’s okay, relax,” he tries to say, and takes in a long breath. 

“It’s not okay,” Keith bites back. He wiggles away from Shiro's touch so that he can stand. “Shiro, you fucking died.” 

Right. 

He gestures wildly, at Shiro, the sky, the sea. “He shows up asking me how many times I’m gonna save you and I already didn’t fucking save you!” 

“Woah,” Shiro stands and reaches his hands out in a show of peace. He wants to close the gap between them, curl together. He takes a half step forward. “Come here.” 

But Keith flinches and backs further away. The fear and pain in his face hit Shiro straight in his chest. 

“Don’t touch me,” he says. His breaths are getting ragged. “Just, please. You don’t have to.”

“Okay, no touching,” he keeps his hands up and stays back. Keith’s armor flickers on and off again, and Shiro realizes that in the other version of him, the one imagined, he doesn’t have the scar on his face anymore. He makes a show of breathing deeply, not quite counting out loud, but making sure Keith can hear his exhaling, see the way his ribs expand. Slowly, he lowers his hands, and he can tell Keith is trying. He’s still tense, still looks a little defensive, but he’s breathing. 

Shiro gestures back towards the woods. “Do you want to walk?”

Keith swallows and looks over towards the path. His brow is wrinkled in displeasure but he finally nods. “Okay. Yeah.”

Sometimes when Shiro dreamed of this place, there was a cabin. He knows he imagined it sometimes in the astral plane, too, but he doesn’t call upon it just yet. For now they’re just going to walk. 

“You know I’m not mad, right?” Shiro asks. 

Keith doesn’t answer, but huffs out an irritated breath. They step over a gnarled tree root, and Keith raises an arm to push an errant branch out of the way.

“How could you have known? He was just like me.”

“No. He wasn’t,” Keith’s voice is hard and cold, punches Shiro right in the gut. “You don’t get it. He wasn’t like you.”

“What do you mean?”

Keith stops walking for a moment to rub over his face, and he turns away, in a circle. He’s running his hands through his hair and looking up at the sky, full of nervous energy. 

“I just thought…” he lets out such a dry laugh, it’s almost heartbreaking. “You weren’t the same after the first time either, so. I just. You came back different. And I figured maybe something happened.”

“Oh.”

He drops his hands from his face, looks straight at Shiro. “It’s not like I… you know, I didn’t judge you or anything. I still—“ he stops himself, closes his eyes. Takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry, it’s just. I feel really fucked up.”

“Okay.”

It’s the simplest response he can think of, and he hopes his voice is gentle enough. It takes a bit for Keith to relax, and he’s pacing back and forth on the path, his boots leaving trenches. He shakes his hands out at his sides, kicks a rock. Shiro tries to imagine a few more into existence for him, and can’t tell if Keith is catching onto it as he kicks another one, then another. 

“How much longer am I gonna be in here?” he asks, out of nowhere. 

“The doctor said it would just be a few days. Maybe another day.”

“ _Just a few days_ ,” he mutters. “I’ve been here forever.”

“I know.”

Keith stops pacing, crosses his arms over his chest. “Sorry, I know you had it worse. I’m not trying to be a dick.”

Shiro shrugs. He takes a step back, leans against a tree. “I heard you. When I was here.”

“Yeah, you said. Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. It was the only thing that made sense to me.”

He kicks at another rock, and when he looks up to meet Shiro’s eyes he just seems so small.

“I’m really sorry I didn’t know.”

“I accept that,” Shiro says. He holds his hands out again, a peace gesture. “And I want you to accept that I’m not mad.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

Shiro shrugs and wonders if it’s time for the cabin. “Wanna keep going?”

“Where else are we going?”

“Wherever. You can take over if you want to try.”

Keith scowls for a moment. “Not yet. I just wanna stay in yours. It’s probably way nicer than anything I’d come up with right now.”

It actually makes him laugh, and it seems to dissolve some of the stress. He points towards a new fork in the path that wasn’t there before and leads the way. 

“Do you think we’re made of more than our memories?” he asks as they turn a bend, and there it is. It’s sagging and derelict but there’s something charming about it, almost magical. It gives him the same feeling that finding the beach in his dreams does, like he’s found something secret. 

“What do you mean?”

“Like, how much of who we are is just our memories and experiences?”

His face softens like he’s actually contemplating it. 

“I don’t know.”

They approach the cabin, take the front steps carefully because they look ready to collapse. Shiro touches the rusty lantern hanging by the door, exactly how he remembers it. It creaks when he gives the valve a twist. Keith steps past him and cups his hands against the dirty windows, trying to look inside.

“He wasn’t _you_ ,” Keith says. It slips out almost nonchalantly as he peeks through into the cabin.

“Keith—“

“No, listen,” he turns and there’s dirt smudged on his cheek. “I’m not saying it to beat myself up about it, it’s just that… you’re someone else.”

Shiro can tell there’s more he wants to say, but he’s having a hard time figuring it out. Keith turns and checks out the next window over. 

“I know it wasn’t just sex,” Shiro says, and Keith’s shoulders go stiff. “And, uh. I guess. I’m sorry, it must’ve been really hard for you.”

He’s almost expecting a sarcastic remark, but Keith just leans his forehead against the glass. 

Shiro pulls at the door of the lantern, and it’s stuck for a moment from the rust. Eventually it pops open, and he touches along the burnt wick inside.

“I thought it was real,” Keith mumbles. Shiro almost misses it, but the way it shocks through him is unmistakable.

His throat is dry. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. _Focus_. He knows he got out. He knows his name is Takashi Shirogane. He knows he’s the Captain of the Atlas and was a Paladin of Voltron. He knows he doesn’t need to breathe in the astral plane.

“Maybe it was.”

Keith’s fingernails tap into the glass. 

The door of the cabin is unlocked, Shiro knows this. It always is. He presses his fingertips to the doorknob, wondering if he should use it as another distraction. It’s so close. The feeling surrounds them both; it’s coming from Keith’s body and he wonders if Black is drawing it around them, too, tangling them together. _Stay with this_ , he tells himself, but the silence is only making him feel deflated. 

He probably has to say it first. 

Keith sneaks a look over at him, only staying for a quick second before looking down at the floor. His eyes are still sort of red from earlier; he still doesn’t look too good. 

“How do I know it’s real?”

“Keith…”

“I’ll never know if you really mean it, or if you feel bad for me or something. I’m never going to know if it’s what you really want.”

He knows if he turns the doorknob right now that he’ll be able to feel the tumbler grinding, and it will take a shove to get it open. The wood is swollen from being out here in the rain all this time.

But he doesn’t get the chance to try. He feels words in his chest, answers, explanations; he wants to tell Keith everything, but there’s a noise, and he’s cold, and it’s dark again. There’s a moment where all he can feel is terror, because this is how it used to happen before. He’d be so close to being immersed, to forgetting where he was, and the void would swallow him again. He struggles against it, thrashes his arms for purchase, and can’t make sense of it until the sound crashes in again.

It’s the door of Keith’s hospital room, whirring shut behind the morning nurse. She looks startled to see Shiro there, but hides it quickly enough.

“Good morning, Captain,” she’s making little circles around room, taking stats down on her tablet. Shiro’s heart is pounding so hard he thinks he might get sick. 

“Oh. Yeah,” he rubs his eyes, sits up. “Good morning.”

He stares at his hands in his lap, tries to blink away the haze. He doesn’t notice she’s gone until he hears the door close again. 

The clock on the wall tells him it’s early, but he has meetings soon, all morning, and training with the MFE pilots. He should visit the other Paladins again, too, before they all think he’s a complete asshole. And he should say hi to Krolia, he supposes. He should shave. He should eat something.

He looks over at Keith. 

Other people won’t know any better; they would probably think he looks like he’s sleeping, like he looks peaceful.

Shiro strokes Keith’s hair back away from his face, thumbs across a cheekbone. The truth of it is hollow, uncomfortable. Something only he and Keith can know. 

It isn’t peace. It’s emptiness.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Christmas! I got nothing to do today so here's an extra chapter for the week. ^^

He straightens his jacket the best he can for the walk of shame back to his quarters, hopes no one notices his messy hair as he comes out of Keith’s room. But it’s early still. He figures most people are still asleep. 

Guilt gnaws at him, low in his belly, for leaving. Keith was still looking so small in the hospital bed, though the color was beginning to come back to his face. Shiro hates leaving him alone. He deserves to have someone waiting.

Keith would understand, though. He thinks Keith is proud of him, even though he hasn’t said it in so many words since they’ve been back on Earth. The idea alone warms him inside, makes him feel more relaxed. 

His room is cold and silent and sterile after the night he’s had. He hangs his jacket, peels his clothes off and tucks them into the hamper. It feels like he hasn’t slept at all, and he supposes that’s true. He’s turning the shower on in his en suite, checking the temperature with his human hand, when it occurs to him that he misses waking up with Keith.

_Misses it_. As if it were his to miss. 

He shakes his head to make sense of it as he steps into the shower. 

“You don’t get to miss him,” he mutters to himself. “He wasn’t yours.”

He hopes Keith is doing okay out there.

Water pounds hot against his body, soothes his stiff muscles. For a moment he just stands under the spray, just feeling it. It’s a little ridiculous how exhausted he is. He leans forward and presses his forehead to the cold tile. Closes his eyes. Deep breaths.

The memories are aggressive, invasive as he tries to relax. _Oh my god, Keith. Where did you even get this?_ he hears his own voice in his mind. Get what? It’s still fuzzy.

He sees Keith’s face though, the adorable rage, embarrassed pout. 

“Go clean yourself up,” the clone said, and Keith was already obeying, shrugging out of his jacket and turning towards the bathroom door. “Then we can decide what to do about this.”

But Keith had left the door open. The sound of the shower in the real world blends with the one of the memory, so does the warmth of steam on his skin. The clone had hovered in the doorway, watching Keith through the shower’s clear half-wall. Even through the memory, Shiro can tell that Keith is moving suggestively like he knows he’s being watched. Little fucking tease.

He ran his fingers through his hair, sleek with conditioner, letting out a soft moan as he massaged his own scalp. It was either genuine or he was an amazing actor, the clone couldn’t be sure. He watched as Keith continued down, massaging over the back of his neck beneath the water, then pressing his fingertips over his shoulders. The moaning was louder this time, like real relief.

Almost in a sympathy gesture, Shiro does the same. His new arm makes the angle easier, and the large, blunt fingertips press hard into the tense muscles around his shoulder blades. He’s sort of moaning, too, unintentionally, and even without witnesses around he feels his cheeks going red.

The clone had rolled his eyes, but he was taking his clothes off, folding them neatly to leave on the counter. He took his time, watching as Keith’s movements became more exaggerated. At first it was the way he was rubbing the soap into his biceps, then the way his hands were tracing over the lines of his ribs. His head turned at one point, giving away that he was waiting for a reaction, and the clone caught the way Keith’s mouth quirked into a stupid cocky grin.

He stepped into the shower, pressing close behind Keith’s body, stilling his hands over his hips. Keith leaned his head back against the clone’s shoulder.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he asked, low, close to Keith’s ear. 

“Cleaning up, like you told me.”

“Are you sure?” he pulled closer so that his growing hardon pressed up against Keith’s back. “Cause it looks like you’re putting on a show.”

Keith chuckled. “Is it working?”

He slid his hands down across Keith’s belly, nuzzled against the side of his jaw. “Not really.”

Keith wiggled in the clone’s grasp and pressed back, grinding against his dick. Shiro, his forehead still pressed against the his shower wall in the Garrison, back on Earth, shudders from the memory. He can feel it in his body. This same body. 

“Your dick begs to differ,” Keith had said. The clone’s hands were petting the space below Keith’s navel, almost ready to really touch him, but pulled back to play with his nipples. 

“Don’t provoke me,” he whispered. Shiro’s brow creases and he closes his eyes, not sure if he’s trying to focus on the vision or clear it from his head. Keith is on the other side of the building, sleeping off a head injury, and the guilt of it chews on Shiro’s insides, but there’s something fascinating about unfolding these memories. It’s guilt and heat and hunger; and he thinks he should continue his conversation with Keith before he spends time here, but there’s that presence in his head again. Warm and gentle, encouraging him. He can feel her stroking the base of his brain, telling him it’s okay to be here. And he doesn’t want to make excuses, but he thinks he believes her.

In the memory, he sees the way the clone rolled Keith’s nipple in his right hand, heard the sharp hiss of pain because he’d squeezed too hard. But Keith liked it and they both could tell. Shiro doesn’t know where he’s supposed to put all this information. _Keith likes this_.

The clone bit lightly at Keith’s earlobe and reached between his legs with the prosthesis, and there isn’t a tactile sensation at Keith’s half-hard dick in his palm, but he’d watched the way it went redder, the way it grew as he gave it a few slow strokes. Shiro’s own dick is stirring in the present, and he’s blushing, and it feels wrong to indulge the ache but he can’t help it. 

“You like that?” the clone asked. Keith was squirming at the touch of the metal, hissing against the cold. It would warm up in a minute, between the hot water and his body, but it always thrilled the clone that he’d flinch at first. And the clone understands, so does Shiro, because he had the same reaction to it the first few times he’d touched himself with it, too.

The thought of it is heavy inside; he doesn’t think it bothers him as much as it used to, but it’s unpleasant. It’s not so traumatic to remember anymore, just frustrating. There was nothing less sexy than his cell, and he couldn’t even smooth it out with fantasy, because it would only make him more homesick. There were no memories, no people, nothing he could draw on to bring him out of his own head. But his whole body hurt so much, and he just needed it to relax.

By the time he died, by the time the clone happened, by the time he’s got Keith whimpering in the shower, he knows how much pressure to use. They both know the crush of the metal fingers, they both know where the limit is before it’s not fun anymore. 

Shiro hasn’t bothered experimenting with his new hand yet. It’s still so new; his shoulder isn’t even all the way healed beneath it. It’s so much bigger than the other one. At first it’s distracting, just the feeling of it, but the sensation of cold isn’t there like it used to be. It’s smoother, less jarring. He’s still adjusting to the nuances of its strength, and squeezes softly around himself, experimental to see how much it will take.

The clone was kissing the side of Keith’s face beneath the water and lifted the fingers of his human hand to Keith’s mouth, and Keith accepted without argument. He moaned as he sucked at them and the sound of it rattling around in Shiro’s head makes his dick twitch. He strokes carefully, not sure how it’s going to feel, and flexes his shoulders. 

“You’re gonna show me how you like it, right?” the clone asked. He pressed his face to Keith’s head and breathed in the scent of the shampoo. “You’ll show me how you use it when I’m not around?”

Keith mumbled something around the fingers in his mouth, half whining. The clone drew them out to let him speak. “Y-yes, yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes, sir.”

The clone rubbed a thumb over his cockhead. “Good.”

They’d have to be more thorough back in the bedroom, but his fingers were slick enough with spit to tease at Keith’s hole. He pressed in to his first knuckle and laughed low next to Keith’s ear at the noises that came out. 

“I can’t believe you even own that. You have no shame.”

The way Keith moaned and rolled his hips back made the blood rush to the clone’s dick, and it does the same to Shiro. He grimaces as he touches himself and it lights up the nerves inside his thighs. He shouldn’t be watching this, it feels wrong, but he’s felt so tense for days and it’s hard to stop. He just needs to get off and maybe he’ll make it through the rest of the day.

Black is rumbling in his mind though, approving. God, that’s… awkward. But it melts through him, puts his inhibitions at ease.

“Shiro, don’t—“ Keith was gasping as the clone moved faster, as he pushed deeper, added a finger. 

“You want me to stop?” he breathed.

“You’re gonna make me come—“

“Mm,” he bit at Keith’s shoulder. “Did you think I was only gonna let you come once? You think I’m done with you?”

“Shiro-oo—“

“Go ahead,” he whispered. He pressed into Keith’s prostate and rubbed a thumb against his slit. “Do it. Come all over yourself like a little slut.”

Shiro pauses for a moment, not sure if he’s more turned on or more mortified. _He was me_. They still have so much to talk about and it’s something Shiro has to figure out how he wants to explain. Of course, he doesn’t want to make assumptions that Keith wants to continue to sleep with him. Black’s energy in his mind tells him otherwise, but he’ll require a higher burden of proof. But he saw the doubt in Keith’s face when he brought it up, and he wonders if it’s silly for them both to feel so shy about it. 

But, fuck, the way Keith shook as he came, how much the taunting encouraged him. Shiro knows he hasn’t had the opportunity to exercise his kinks since… well, since before Kerberos, even, he realizes. Fuck. 

He lets go of his cock, frustrated suddenly, and opens his eyes. He blinks against the water and pushes his hair back out of his face. His erection is red, straining, and despite his own hesitation he thinks he should take care of this. But the feel of his hand is too distracting, keeps taking him out of it. He rubs his face, turns the water colder and tries to shake it off. 

The clone had pulled Keith out of the shower, still strung tight with aftershocks, smacked his ass on the way back to the bedroom. And the beginnings of the evening had been hazy in Shiro’s memory, but it’s becoming clearer. He sees it on the bed now, and even with the water running colder on his body it flushes warmth between his legs again.

He’d picked up the toy, rolled it back and forth in his palm. Large and purple, ribbed. Shiro has seen enough Galra in the full flesh to know it’s mostly accurate, though he remembers there being a degree of variation from person to person. It’s big, though, that part is consistent. And the clone was laughing about it. He sat down on the edge of the bed and held it out to Keith; even through his own eyes, it made his hand look small. 

“I didn’t know you were such a size queen.”

Keith blushed and looked down at the floor as his hands wrapped around it. He brought it closer to his body, holding it over his pelvis like he was trying to hide behind it. Shy. The clone grabbed the bottle of lube from beside him on the bed and handed that to Keith, as well.

“Show me,” he said. Keith’s thumb ran a circle against the lid of the bottle. His skin was still red from the shower, his dick still spent between his legs. He took a step closer to the bed like he was going to sit, but the clone held out a hand to gesture to stop.

“No,” he said, and saw the way his voice made Keith’s cock stir back to life. “Why don’t you get on the floor.”

Shiro grits his teeth and lets the cold water spray him in the face but it’s not helping.

Keith’s face was guarded as he poured the lube into his own hand, but all three of them are aware that it’s an act, a persona. He likes making them work for it and Shiro cups his balls with his left hand this time, squeezing at them until it hurts a little bit. In the memory, they don’t see Keith sink his fingers into himself, but they see the way it ripples across his face. 

Shiro shakes his head again, lets go. It’s beginning to feel too real, too close. 

In the memory, he had started to touch himself. Keith stayed on his knees on the floor, his eyebrows together and his breath beginning to shake as he stretched onto his own fingers. The clone stroked slowly, throbbing in his own hand, played with his foreskin. 

“Let’s see, baby,” he said, and Keith nodded. He set the dildo on the floor between his legs and rose up to hover over it. He poured lube over the top and made a show of spreading it down, his fingers tracing over all the hard purple ridges. “Show me how bad you want one of them to fuck you.” 

It really was huge. The clone kept his cool, stayed with his role, but wondered how it would even work. Keith had probably used it by himself, right? He owned it, after all. He reached out to smooth over one of Keith’s eyebrows with his thumb, condescending, but a hint that he was checking in. All Keith would have to do was say the word, and the game would be over.

But no. Shiro knows, and the clone knew, that Keith is strong willed. It’s one of his best traits and the thing that they both first really loved about him. When he sets his minds to things, he does them. If you challenge him, he flourishes.

So he began to lower himself, and the noise he made sounded like pain, but they saw the way his dick bobbed and strained again, the way it dripped.The clone hissed, and Shiro does in the present, thinking about how the ribbed surface and flare of the shaft must’ve been hitting him in waves.

“That’s it,” the clone said, and squeezed around his own cock. He almost wanted Keith to turn around so that he could see better. Even without seeing where it breached his body, he watched how the inches slowly disappeared as Keith moved. 

“Fuck,” Keith whined, and reached out to brace himself against the clone’s thigh. He squeezed tight and rose up on his knees, rocking back and forth. Shiro turns and leans his back against the shower wall, gasping at the shock of cold, and touches one of his nipples.

“It’s adorable that you’re acting so coy about it,” the clone said, and tucked a strand of hair behind Keith’s ear. “Acting like you haven’t done this before, like you don’t do this all the time when I’m not around. You can’t get enough of it, can you?”

He bit his lip and moaned through it as he lowered himself again, but didn’t respond.

“Come here,” he said, and reached around behind Keith’s head to pull him down. Keith went with it, reached his hand out to hold the base of the clone’s dick as he sank his mouth down around the head, not needing to be told. The clone groaned deep and it rumbled through his chest. “Good boy.”

He pet Keith’s hair, still wet, and rocked his hips upwards. Keith shuddered and drooled and it made the motion of his hand smoother. He moaned as he lowered himself down on the toy and it vibrated through the clones body.

“God, look at you,” he said. He pat Keith on the cheek. “Taking it from both ends like a slut. Is this what you do out there on your missions? You let them do this to you?”

If his mouth wasn’t stuffed full of cock, the noise he made probably would’ve been akin to a whimper. As it were, it was a high pitched tangle that shot down to the bottom of the clone’s feet. He rolled his hips in response and felt the back of Keith’s throat. Keith gagged and squeezed around his leg hard enough that it would leave a bruise. 

“You had to get a fucking monster dildo for when you have to be back here without them? How much money did you spend on this thing?”

He pulled Keith off for a moment by the hair as if he wanted an answer, but Shiro knows that it’s to give him a moment to breathe. There was spit all over Keith’s chin, dripping, and he coughed. His eyes were glassy.

“I can’t believe what a goddamn mess you’re making,” the clone said, and wiped at Keith’s bottom lip. Keith sucked at his thumb and bounced on the toy again. The clone stole a glance between his legs; it was probably halfway in. God, it was huge.

“Where do you even get money out here?” he guided Keith’s head back but didn’t push this time, let Keith set the pace as he took the clone’s dick back into his mouth. “Unless you go out there and sell your body when no one’s watching.”

Keith pulled back and sucked at the head for a moment, mewling in response. 

“You could though,” he continued. “You have such a tight little ass. They probably love you. But I bet you give it away for free.”

Shiro wraps his left hand around his dick and attempts to relieve the pressure, but it feels all wrong. Even on the trip to Earth, with one fucking arm, it kept feeling wrong. He groans out in frustration and tries to stroke himself, but it feels so uncoordinated. 

There was a jolt through their whole body as Keith made it all the way down and cried out, voice muffled around their dick. He was starting to shake.

“You’re not gonna come again, are you?” He held Keith’s head in place and fucked up into him a few times. “Just from being used? Unbelievable.”

Keith’s nails dug into the clone’s legs. 

“God, baby,” he sighed. “You give the best head. You’ve probably had so much practice.”

Shiro tugs at his hair with his prosthetic hand and keeps trying to get into a rhythm that feels right. He keeps thinking about Keith in the astral plane and wonders if he’s okay, if he’s figuring out how to pass the time. It’s only vaguely horrifying that they’ve been around each other for months and had an entire conversation in the void and… Keith knew about all this. 

_You don’t get it, he wasn’t like you_. 

God, he has no idea.

“Do you let them take turns?” he asked. “You’re so little, baby, they probably think you’re so cute.”

Keith rode faster, moaned louder. The clone gave him a light slap on the face. “That’s it, show me how you like it. You wish it was Kolivan, don’t you?”

Shiro squeezes around his dick and tries to catch his breath. Jesus Christ.

“Do you call him _daddy_?”

They felt as Keith convulsed, and how his voice got louder, they felt the splash of his release on their leg. Shiro switches hands again, tries the prosthesis another time. On impulse he squeezes too hard and hisses, curses at himself. 

The clone was laughing and wouldn’t let Keith up off his cock. “Did that just make you come? Just that?” 

It sounded like he was crying.

“Unbelievable, Keith.”

And then the clone was coming, too, despite pretending he wasn’t affected. He squeezed the back of Keith’s head, flexed his thighs as he shot down the back of his throat. 

There’s more in the vision, Shiro is realizing. He can’t seem to hit his stride and keeps losing the thread of his own orgasm, and the rest of the memory is getting distracting. The way Keith was giggling up at him a few minutes later, after he’d calmed down. How they’d taken another shower, gentle this time. How Keith had quietly rocked into him after they’d gotten in bed, how he’d kissed the clone’s brow and held his hand through it. 

He wonders about Keith’s excessive stamina, if the memories are getting it right. He’s not sure if he’s imagining it, or stringing events together that shouldn’t be together, or maybe it’s just a Galra thing. But it feels really clear now that he’s spent time with it, and he remembers falling asleep impressed and completely wrung out, heart full. 

It’s ironic, and he’s grunting in irritation as he gives up and shuts the water off. It’s ironic because when he thinks of all the months in the castle with Keith—all the glances and touches, the hugs, the sparring—he remembers sort of feeling like this. Sort of horny and frustrated, not sure it was right to jerk off to the thought of his best friend and not even sure what to jerk off to. 

_You came back different_.

There’s something about the clone that he can’t quite explain yet, hasn’t truly unpacked. Like he was programmed, but missing parts. Because Shiro knows that these are all the things he would’ve liked to do to Keith, would’ve said to him, if things had been different. He can’t imagine being able to do that to him after coming out of captivity. He can’t imagine that he’d have wanted to use force, to even tease the idea of violence or control. It hadn’t been like that for him since before Kerberos. 

But Keith had liked it. Keith had gone with it.

His erection flags as he gets out of the shower and towels off. Still tense and confused, maybe mad at himself for not figuring out how to take care of it. But it’s getting late and he has things to do. He’s the Captain of the Atlas now. 

He’s thinking about the clone during the meetings, not really paying enough attention. He promises himself that he’ll be more focused once Keith is okay. He tells himself that if this were life or death, he’d snap out of it. But it’s numbers again. Budgets. It wouldn’t involve him at all if the Garrison hadn’t been pared down to almost nothing. 

_You came back different_. Keith didn’t know the fucking half of it.

The day seems like it drags, but when he looks back on it it’s just a blur. He takes time to breathe, to count, to draw a timeline of his afternoon, to make sure. He knows he slept in Keith’s bed again. He knows members of the Voltron Coalition are starting to arrive on Earth. He knows Keith killed Sendak. 

It’s late again by the time he’s done for the day, by the time he can go back to Keith. He takes the stairs to blow off steam, to kill some of the low-grade anxiety that’s been stringing him along all day. He rolls his shoulders and runs his hands through his hair a few times on the landing of the stairwell before he takes a deep breath and enters into the medical wing.

The other Paladins are doing better, still sleepy and soft on medication, but smiling. Surrounded by their families. He shakes hands and smiles—he’s always been good with parents—and he hopes they don’t notice how worn thin he really is. That goes by in a blur, too. Even walking away from their rooms he isn’t sure he remembers anything anyone had said to him. 

When he turns the corner he sees that Keith’s door is open, and skin runs cold as he jogs the last few steps. He knows that they’re in and out of his room all day, monitoring, but it’s unnerving. 

But when he gets there, and steps inside, it’s just the doctor. She seems relaxed, unconcerned, and her voice is breezy as she explains the status to Krolia. She’s talking with her hands and Krolia is nodding along, her face intent and focused but not distressed. 

They both stop when he comes in, and he has an irrational stab of anxiety that they’re going to scold him for some reason, but they both smile. Krolia comes around the bed and gives him a hug, kisses him on the cheek.

“How’s he doing?” he asks before anything else, and wonders if it’s rude of him. He doesn’t get the impression that Krolia cares too much about that kind of thing, though. The doctor pats him on the shoulder.

“He’s fine, Shiro,” she says. He appreciates that she’s not mocking him. “We’ll give him one more night to be sure but we’ll start bringing him down in the morning if all goes well.”

His heart pounds wildly. 

“Oh, okay,” he says. She’s giving him a reassuring squeeze on his left arm and saying goodbye before he can register what’s being said, and then she’s gone. He stares at the closed door for a moment and can feel Krolia’s eyes on him.

A moment passes in silence, his throat dry, and he’s almost ready to speak when she smirks and cuts him off.

“You look like shit,” she says, and ruffles his hair. 

He laughs softly. “Thanks Mom.”

She rolls her eyes and goes to sit down in the chair next to the bed. He feels like he wants to thank her for hanging out all day, keeping him company, and doesn’t know if it’s arrogant. He’s her _son_ , for fucks sake. His brain is too overcrowded with new thoughts to sort through, he’s not sure why he’s feeling so defensive and jealous all of a sudden.

“I appreciate you for being here for him,” she says first, instead, and it startles him. Her face seems uncharacteristically soft. “I’ve always worried about him, but it’s… harder than it used to be.” She frowns down at the bed for a moment, then rearranges her face. 

“Yeah,” Shiro says, “yeah, of course.”

“I don’t just mean here,” she amends, and gestures around the room. 

He swallows. “Right. Yeah. Of course.” 

“You know…” she pauses and touches Keith’s hand, runs her fingers across the medical tape, over the hard bump of the needle. “He really missed you when we were away.” 

“I missed him, too.”

She shoots him a look that isn’t necessarily angry, but definitely suggests that he cuts the shit. His insides go cold. Fuck, how much does she know? 

“He loves you,” she says. 

“I know, I-“

“No, Shiro. Listen to me,” her thumb is pressing down against the injection site. “He _loves_ you.” 

“Okay.”

“Do you understand me?” 

“Yes ma’am.” 

She looks over Keith one more time and brushes his hair away from his face. She rolls her shoulders, cracks her neck in a string of audible pops, and stands. 

“I don’t know what’s going on between you two,” she says, and takes a step towards him. He has to look up to meet her eyes. “But I really think you should try to resolve it. I think you’ll both be surprised.” 

“Okay. Yeah.”

“You hear me?” 

“Yes ma’am.”

The hard set to her face collapses instantly as she smiles at him. She rubs his back and kisses his cheek again. 

“Kolivan is going to be here soon, I have to go meet him.”

Ugh, Kolivan. Shiro doesn’t know if he’s ever going to be able to look the guy in the face again. 

“Do humans still eat… _bur-ri-tos_?”

He laughs a little too hard, from his nerves, but her smile is good natured. 

“I think the restaurant in town is wiped out but you can probably get some in the canteen.”

“Good. I’ll feed him six.” 

And then she’s gone, and the room is quiet, and they’re alone again. 

He’s so glad this will be over soon.

For a moment he contemplates taking a seat in the chair, holding Keith’s hand the way Krolia had been. But he can feel Black, restless, almost like she’s complaining at him. He wonders if laying there, hearing Keith’s heartbeat, makes the connection stronger.

It’s been a hard few days. This is becoming a ritual, the way the rail snaps down, the way he runs his hand down over the blanket to check for hidden tubes, afraid of dislodging something. The guilt is back, wondering if it’s weird to lay here like this, but he’s starting to feel like it might be okay. It’s not even from Black telling him so anymore.

_I’ll tell him this time,_ he says, and stretches his new arm to shut the lights. _I’ll tell him first._

Only a little longer now. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [I'm on Twitter now since Tumblr shat itself, be my friend!!!](https://twitter.com/kacyinthecosmos)


	6. Chapter 6

He expects the usual startling plunge into blackness. The cold, the panic. He braces himself for the harsh landing, tries to remind his subconscious that it’s okay, they’re not still dead, they’re not back. He tries to anticipate if Keith is going to be a mess again.

But it’s a smooth descent this time. It’s less shock, less like trauma, more like sinking into a warm bath. It fits in with the sweet pull of sleep.

He sees the stars, like he always would. There’s always the moment where it’s beautiful, calming. It touches the same part of him that used to sit outside with a shitty yard sale telescope. They seem bigger here, closer. More real.

As his eyes adjust, he realizes it isn’t dark out. Not like it usually is. The sky is pink and orange, fading to a warm purple at the edges. He follows the gradient down the horizon and sees the rock formations, the desert plants. It looks like Earth, like the empty space outside the Garrison. 

It’s a good sign, he thinks. Better than dropping into the toxic ruins of Keith’s anxiety. Better than darkness. 

He turns a circle, looking for a clue on where to go, and his eyes make out the aberration in the horizon line. It’s faint, but it’s there. He might not have noticed if he hadn’t been taught to look for them in flight school. It’s all hard lines, unnatural angles that don’t match the landscape. A manmade structure.

It should take longer to get there, but rules don’t apply here. He begins to walk, and takes a moment to calm his nerves, but when he’s ready he closes his eyes and wills himself the rest of the way. When he opens them, he’s standing at the front gate.

It’s a house, and he thinks he recognizes it. He thinks Keith had a photo of it hanging on the wall in his dorm. The house he lived in as a kid? It’s a little run down on the outside but it seems mostly cosmetic. Crooked shutters, that sort of thing. The shingles are sun bleached and the paint is worn off the porch rails. But it radiates warmth, comfort. It must be a place that Keith feels safe.

The rusty hinges of the front gate creak when he pushes it open, and he hears music from inside the house as he approaches. Admiration washes over at how complete the vision is. _He’s so good_.

He’s not sure if he should knock at the door or not. It seems silly to for some reason, but at the same time he doesn’t want to startle Keith. The air out here feels calm and steady but Shiro knows more than anyone how precarious it is. Keith could be lost in it, he might not be aware of where he is. 

But the floorboards on the porch groan beneath his weight and he decision is taken out of his hands when Keith opens the door.

“Shiro!” he seems surprised, voice tight, but he’s looking a lot better. He looks around the porch as if he needs to know that Shiro is alone and the fear tears into him for a moment; he hopes Keith still remembers where they are, because it’s so upsetting to come down from it, and Shiro doesn’t want to see it happen.

“Keith,” is all he says in response, and tries to read Keith’s face. He seems wound tight,a bit antsy, but there’s no panic here. The color in his face looks healthy, his clothes comfortable. He’s not wearing shoes.

“Are you… really here?”

“Yeah. I think so.”

“I wasn’t expecting you,” he says. “How long have you been gone?”

Shiro shrugs. “All day I guess.”

“All day.”

Shiro touches his shoulder. “How long did you think it was?”

“I—“ confused, frowning. “I don’t know. It’s been a long time.”

The porch creaks as Shiro shifts his weight and he sees past Keith, over his shoulder into the house. Something about it seems familiar, but Keith steps in his way before he can stare too long. He seems embarrassed.

“I, um,” his cheeks are going red now. “I can change it. If it’s weird. I’m sorry.”

“Change what?” 

“The, uh,” he glances over his shoulder and then sidesteps again to keep Shiro from looking in. “The house. You know. It’s…”

“It looks good,” Shiro says. He’s not sure why Keith looks so nervous. “Can I come in?” 

“Yeah, sure, but—“

Shiro doesn’t intend to push if Keith is actually uncomfortable, but he steps out of the way on his own, watching the floor as Shiro looks inside. 

“Oh,” he says. He rubs at his jaw and steps through the doorway. The uncanny resemblance is certainly jarring, but the warmth and familiarity tug at his heart. It takes a moment to settle in, but isn’t as uncomfortable as he thought it would be.

Keith shuts the door behind them and hovers by it. Shiro tries to smile. 

“I love what you’ve done with the place,” he tries to joke. Keith just blushes harder. 

“We can change it, sorry.”

“No,” he goes further into the room and drops down onto the couch the way he used to. It feel the same. “It’s fine. I like it.”

Keith crosses his arms over his stomach and leans against the door. 

“I missed this place,” Shiro says. He looks around the room at all the details Keith picked up on, from the way his Garrison certificates were always hanging a little crooked on the wall to the split corner of the _Total Recall_ poster, mangled from all the times it had been moved around and tacked back up in every place he’d ever lived. 

“It’s not weird?” 

He wants to make a joke that it is, of course it is—that Keith’s weird—but the vulnerable look on his face tells him it’s not the time. He shrugs, instead. “No. I’m flattered, I guess.” 

“I, uh…” he moves around the room, straightens a few things. Nudges a magazine to be perfectly squared with the corner of the coffee table, lines up the TV remotes in a straight line. “I feel like I should offer you a drink or something, but it’s your place.” 

Real laughter comes out. He sinks further down into the couch. “It’s okay. Do you wanna sit?” 

“Yeah, okay,” he wipes his hands on his pants. “Sure. Yeah.” And he takes the opposite end of the couch, leaving plenty of space. 

He isn’t sure if he should ask about it, point it out. He wants to. But Keith seems embarrassed and maybe he should just read between the lines. 

It’s true though, he does miss this place. It’s his apartment from before Kerberos, the one off base that he’d been able to afford after his first mission. It’s all high ceilings and wood floors, mostly minimal aside from some movie posters that kept traveling from room to room to room during his adolescence. He remembers laughing when he hung them up, and telling Adam _Can’t let it get too_ adult _in here._ There’s affection blooming in his chest at Keith’s vivid attention to detail, how close he got it just from memory. Even the view of the park through the huge windows and the darkness of the desert beyond it. The seventh floor, where you could see everything.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” Keith says after a moment. He’s drawn his knees up to his chest and he’s pressed himself as tight as he can into the corner of the couch. “About if we’re more than our memories.” 

“Yeah?” 

He peeks over at Shiro and then turns away again, picks at his cuticles. The scar is back on his face now, Shiro notices. He hasn’t been able to make complete sense of that memory yet, but the sight of it tears open a subliminal wound. 

“I think he didn’t have a soul,” Keith says. Shiro almost can’t hear him. “I don’t really know what that means. Like, _quintessence_ or something, maybe. The part of you that survived. He didn’t have that.”

“How do you know?”

Keith laughs at the question and it sounds so bitter. He presses a palm to one of his eyes. “He was… an algorithm. Like AI. The witch was controlling him. I don’t think he really had… desires.”

Shiro’s heart is crumbling a little bit. 

“Why would you think that?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

There’s a memory threatening to rise, he can feel the corners of it peeling up and he wills it away. He can’t think about it right now.

“No, Keith. It’s not obvious.”

He looks over at Shiro, and actually holds his eye contact for longer than what’s comfortable for either of them, but he still gives up before he can speak. He covers his eyes with his hand and curls himself closer against the arm of the couch, like he wants to be as far away from Shiro as he can. 

“I’m not good at this, Shiro.”

“That’s okay,” he wants to reach, to touch, and folds his hands in his lap instead. “Take your time.”

The room around them flickers, as if Keith is losing the thread, but Shiro wills it to stay. He even fills in some details that Keith missed, like the framed four by six of Shiro’s childhood dog that was propped on the bookshelf, or Adam’s forgotten model DeLorean that sat next to it collecting dust after he’d moved out. He can’t remember if Keith knew that it was Adam’s, and he searches the room for other clues, wondering if he was erased from here on purpose.

But Keith wouldn’t know that Adam had picked out this throw rug. He wouldn’t know that Adam had put together the TV unit, because Shiro had been out of spoons the day it was delivered. He’d spread the directions out all around himself in a fan on the floor, meticulously inventorying the bags of screws and dowels and cursing out loud when he still didn’t understand. 

And Shiro’s arm was numb, he couldn’t feel his fingertips that day and wanted to help but kept fumbling. Adam had kissed him on the temple and relegated him to the couch. _I got it, Takashi,_ he would scold, and then _Chill, babe, let me take care of you._

It’s his own damn fault for thinking about it, but now it’s close to the surface. He breathes deep around the pain and closes his eyes.

“It’s just been really shitty,” Keith finally says. Shiro keeps his eyes shut. “Like, losing you—him, I mean—losing that, and I should’ve known it wasn’t you, and I should’ve known it wasn’t real. It was just the witch.”

Eyes open.

Keith is staring. The memory is far away in Shiro’s mind, but he hears it. _They saw that you were broken, worthless._ His stomach drops and he tries to will it away.

Tension is rising, panic like bile. The room feels hot, like it’s getting smaller. He does his best to keep his voice even and thinks he’s not doing a good job. “How could you think it wasn’t real?”

“Because, Shiro.” _You’re my brother._ “The one time someone loves me back they’re being controlled by a witch. Don’t sit here and pretend it isn’t true. People don’t even _like_ me.”

Anger singes inside and he isn’t sure why. He squeezes around his metal hand. 

“I like you,” he says. Keith rolls his eyes. He isn’t sure if the room getting smaller is an illusion from his own panic setting in or if one of them is manifesting it. The urge to stand up and pace and shout passes over but he takes a deep breath to smooth it down. Patience. “Okay. Let’s talk about this.” 

Keith shakes his hands out and waits for it. 

“I know you think he was different,” Shiro says. He has a memory of Keith, above him. Riding his cock and planting his hand flat on the clones breast bone, leaning his weight in so that they can’t breathe. “But he wasn’t.”

“Shiro, I told you already—“

“No. Let me talk. Maybe he was acting weird or didn’t have a soul or something, I don’t know. But he…” god, where to start? “I remember some things, and…”

Keith stands up and twists his hips, cracks his back. It’s like he’s getting ready for a fight. 

“I know you’re saying he felt different but he wasn’t that different.”

Keith is pacing and doesn’t respond. 

“He told you things about me that I’ve never told anyone.”

“But would you have told me? On your own?” He’s trying to keep his face neutral but Shiro can see the guilt burning at the edges. 

“Probably. When I was ready.”

“I just,” Keith sits back down, but stays perched at the edge of the seat, elbows on knees. “It feels gross, I don’t know.”

“He had my memories. You get that, right?”

“So?”

“So I need you to understand that those feelings weren’t his.” 

Keith presses his fingertips to his forehead. “Yeah, I know. I don’t know why we have to go over this,” he swallows hard and his voice starts to get thick, but he does his best to hide it. “I’m not mad about any of it, I know you weren’t you. I know it was her.”

One of the framed Garrison certificates falls down from the wall and Keith starts. Shiro doesn’t react but he stares at the broken glass on the floor.

“You’re not listening to me,” he says. His heart trips in his chest. “I didn’t mean it like that. I don’t mean that they weren’t his because they weren’t real. I mean that they weren’t his because they were mine.”

Keith looks at him with the most piteous expression, like he wants the conversation to be over. Shiro wants to oblige, put them both out of their misery, but he thinks if they don’t do this now, while they have a chance, it won’t happen. And he can tell that Keith is going to carry it like this, all guilt and self-loathing heartbreak and Shiro can’t do that to him.

“You don’t have to do that,” he says quietly. He scratches the tops of his thighs, over his jeans. 

“Do what?” Shiro asks.

“I know you’re just trying to make me feel better.”

“Keith—“

“No, seriously,” he stands up again. “You always do this. You don’t have to keep trying to make it easy on me. I’m not a kid anymore.”

There are angry retorts rising in Shiro’s chest and he can taste the words. He’s almost ready to raise his voice. He breathes, he counts. He keeps his voice even, but he stands and crosses the room, takes Keith by the biceps.

“Don’t you get that he was me?” it comes out harsher than he intends and Keith looks wounded. “Knock it off with the self-deprecating bullshit already and listen to what I’m saying to you.”

Keith looks utterly shocked, and he blinks a few times but doesn’t respond. 

“I get it. I get that you think he was programmed or something. But don’t you get that it was already real? He loved you because I—“

Fuck.

His thumbs run in circles on Keith’s arms. The closeness of it aches. For what it’s worth, Keith doesn’t try to wiggle away until the pause becomes uncomfortable. _Stay with this_ , Shiro tells himself, and he has to steel himself against the urge to pull back. _I love you_.Say it. Say it.

Keith is already turning his head like he doesn’t want to hear what’s going to come out of Shiro’s mouth, like he’s a kicked animal that can’t take it again. And that, above all else, coaxes it out. He means it, he’s known it for quite a while now. It clicked into place sometime in space, realizing that being around him felt like home. He isn’t the same as he used to be, isn’t so rough around the edges, isn’t the angry mess Shiro used to cover for. And seeing him regress to that, to lose his obstinate self-assurance seems like… such a crime. 

It must be love, if it cuts Shiro this deep. He’s alarmed by how much he hates seeing Keith struggle like this, and it washes over in a sense of calm. Just like that, and he feels like himself again, and his hands go gentle but don’t let go. He sweeps up to Keith’s shoulders, holds him there.

“I love you,” he says. Keith’s face doesn’t change right away, he still seems suspicious. “Do you get that, Keith? I love you. I already loved you.”

Shiro can see the way the words connect inside Keith’s head, he sees the stages it goes through, working beneath the surface. Keith relaxes, his shoulders go loose, and when he pulls away this time Shiro lets him. It’s not out of anger, it’s not that he’s recoiling, but he slips back anyway. He makes a lazy gesture towards the kitchen.

“Do you want a drink?” he asks.

A drink. Shiro can’t remember if he’d ever taken the time to feed himself when he was dead. He doesn’t remember feeling hungry. But he knows the mind wants what it wants, and there’s a moment of awe that Keith thought of it. It’s almost that he’s proud, but he’s not sure if that’s condescending.

But Keith is already putting the two shot glasses on the island and pulling the bottle of Woodford Reserve from the cabinet. Okay.

They're poured before Shiro can even answer, and he slips into one of the bar stools across the counter as Keith throws his shot back. He didn’t even bother putting the cork back in and he’s pouring a second as Shiro reaches for his glass.

“You’re not supposed to shoot this, you know,” he chides, but he follows suit.

“Oops,” Keith mumbles. They both slam the glasses down at the same time. Shiro doesn’t wince. He slides his glass back across the counter for a refill.

It’s a curious ritual, one that he would want to explore if he intended to stay here very long. Hopefully it won’t come to that. It’s an illusion, he knows it’s an illusion. He knows they’re on Earth. Keith is in a coma. Everything around them is a patchwork of old memories. 

Keith licks his lips and pours another shot, cracks his neck, slams it. He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and when he looks at Shiro his eyes seem bigger, pupils blown wide. But he’s calmer. He twists the cork in his fingers but doesn’t put it back yet.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m not trying to be an asshole.”

“I know.”

“I just feel like…” his free hand fidgets as he searches for the words. “I just feel like I resolved all of this already. We _talked_ about this.”

Shiro can only blink for a moment and he considers another shot, himself.

“Well. Not we. Sorry. Not you.”

There’s so much Shiro wants to ask, so much he still wants to know and can’t remember. He tries to imagine how this conversation might have gone the first time and the thought of it makes him lean across the counter to take the bottle. Interesting that it doesn’t seem less full from before, and interesting that it’s an illusion but he still feels the burn in his chest, the warmth. The room is expanding back out to how it should be, it’s less constricted.

“Can I ask you something?” he watches the pour line so that he doesn’t have to look at Keith’s face, and he sees Keith nudge his own glass closer in the corner of his eye. He pours Keith another shot, too, and his head swims pleasantly as they proceed. Keith coughs. 

“What’s up?”

“Do you love me? Like, real me?” he looks up and watches Keith for a reaction, but he’s unusually hard to read. It seems like he’s blended out from the alcohol. Soft, but a little cold. Keeping distance. Shiro tries to give him time with the question but his nerves get the better of him and he babbles on, unable to handle the silence. “It’s okay if you don’t. I get it. I know I can’t… give you everything that he did.”

“Oh my god,” Keith mutters. He rubs his eyes and shakes his hair out, and there’s one more shot before he comes around the island and presses into Shiro’s space. “I swear, you are so dumb sometimes.”

And Keith’s mouth is on his, and Shiro’s knees spread apart so that they can lean into each other. He tastes like bourbon. Decent bourbon that you’re supposed to sip. Maybe it doesn’t matter out here, anyway. It’s an illusion but he feels it heating his skin, his chest. His lips are numb and he fumbles against Keith’s, but it’s okay.

He thinks he remembers it being like this, feeling like this. Keith always kissed the clone like it was their last day alive, and Shiro doesn’t blame him. It’s frenzied, desperate. His tongue presses through, he touches Shiro’s jaw with one hand and his ribs with the other. Leans in hard enough that Shiro feels like he might lose his balance, topple backwards off the stool.

“You’re the worst,” Keith says when he breaks, a quick breath, and then comes back in. He bites Shiro’s bottom lip, sucks at it, uses his tongue again. Shiro’s stomach drops at the sensation and it gives him the strangest feeling of déjà vu. He knows how Keith kisses, he remembers it. This body remembers it. But it’s a first. “I can’t believe you’d think that.”

“Yeah, but—“

“No,” Keith interrupts. He licks into Shiro’s mouth, slides his hands up and around the back of his head, leans in. “Stop talking.”

He breaks away for air but their hands are still on each other. “I just don’t know if I can be that person with you,” he manages, and then Keith is on his mouth again. Desperate and messy as if time even matters here, as if they can run out. “You even—“ Keith cuts him off, sucks on Shiro’s tongue, “—said yourself—“

It seems like Keith has to focus hard to break away. He presses their foreheads together and breathes heavy, but gives Shiro a moment to speak. His fingers are moving back and forth across the back of Shiro’s head, through his hair. 

“You said he came back different, and there are things…” _do you call him_ daddy? “…that I don’t know if I can give you.”

“You’re crazy,” Keith says. He kisses again, a little less filthy, and pulls away to kiss his cheek, the bridge of his nose, his brow. His thumbs trace the outside of Shiro’s ears. “You’re crazy.”

Shiro huffs out a laugh and squeezes Keith around his hips. He hesitates like he’s not sure it’s okay to do, but it feels right. There’s an ache in his body, like it missed this. “I know I’m crazy, that’s what I’m telling you.”

Keith’s hands are still roaming, down Shiro’s shoulders, his ribs, his waist. He pulls in closer, leaning his whole body between Shiro’s legs, and nuzzles against his throat.

“Don’t be an asshole,” his teeth graze over the corner of Shiro’s jaw. “Of course I love you.”


	7. Chapter 7

At some point between the barstool and the couch another memory surfaces, and he feels like he’s only half in each world. 

In one, Keith is tugging at his shirt to make him stand, dragging him across the room, shoving him onto the couch and promptly climbing into his lap. In the other, he’s remembering holding Keith to his chest, in some dark corner of the castle, rocking back and forth and rubbing his back, telling him to breathe. 

Well, not _his_ chest. It’s the clone, he reminds himself. He knows it was the clone. 

And he remembers shushing Keith, whispering things to him, but he can’t remember what Keith was so upset about. These memories unfold in his mind like watching a movie, seeing through the clone’s eyes, but it stops there. He can’t quite remember what the clone was thinking, what was motivating him. 

_I don’t think he really had… desires._

He feels it, though, in the memory. The thoughts aren’t words, aren’t tangible, it’s like an engine inside. This need to fix Keith, to make him better, like they were running on instinct. Like he was programmed that way.

The clone pet Keith’s hair away from his forehead, pulled in tighter, and their faces were so close. He could feel Keith’s breath and there was this moment between them where it clicked, where they both knew. And then it was done.

Keith had been nervous. He’s usually such an aggressive person, but had gone so quiet. And the clone was so gentle with him, took it so slow. 

It’s not like that now, though.

Keith straddles his lap and his weight is so perfect there, and he’s holding the sides of Shiro’s face as he kisses. It’s hungry, it’s desperate. A little bit wild. Shiro tries to keep his hands above the waist as he reciprocates.

“I missed you,” Keith gets out between kisses, coming up for air, but it’s like he needs both. Their mouths fuse back together and he’s tense under Shiro’s touch. “I missed you so much.”

Heat surges in his gut and he squeezes Keith’s hips. He’s denser than he looks. On the outside he’s so lean and lithe, but Shiro can feel the muscles in his frame. It smashes through the last bastion of their old life, a reminder that he’s not the kid Shiro had found. 

And yet… he is. 

Shiro moans without meaning to and Keith grinds down against him. They’re both hard in their pants. 

Not a kid, but a constant. He can’t exactly pinpoint when his feelings boiled over, but he feels the gravity of it. They’ve traveled across the universe together and they’re back, and they’re here, in this place. Together. And Shiro realizes he’d do it again.

“Keith,” he pants. Keith takes a moment to kiss the side of his face and he plants his hands on Shiro’s chest, closes in. The bulge in his jeans presses against Shiro’s navel and it scatters his nerves in every direction. “God, Keith.”

“What?” he bites softly at Shiro’s earlobe.

“You’re fucking gorgeous.”

_I remember you like this,_ he wants to say. He remembers Keith tugging and squeezing and panting. He remembers the first time and how hard Keith was trying to be quiet. But there were things, spots, that the clone had discovered, which made Keith wail. 

That Shiro knows this information feels like instinct, like his hands are moving on their own to oblige. Memory tells him that Keith is ticklish on his sides, and if you pinch at his obliques while he’s turned on he’ll squirm and whine. Memory tells him to rub the pad of his thumb against the roof of Keith’s mouth. 

His human thumb, though, because he wants to feel the warmth. 

Keith’s eyes go wide when Shiro does it, and he sucks obediently, and Shiro marvels at the wetness and the ridges, and his prosthesis squeezes the soft spots. Keith’s entire body spasms and the noises he makes have Shiro ready to burst in his fucking pants.

“Fuck, Keith,” he says, and Keith’s eyes flutter shut. Both of his hands come up and hold Shiro by the wrist as he rocks back and forth. He’s not sure he intends for the words to come out, but as he leans back in the couch and watches, he can’t help the confession. “God. I wanna fuck you so bad.”

Keith’s movements stutter to a halt, mostly—his hips are still rolling in a constant, but the rest of his body goes rigid—and he moans around Shiro’s thumb. It’s not words, but it feels like permission. 

His cock is throbbing, held down under Keith’s weight. He cants his hips upward into Keith’s ass and gasps for air.

It’s such a mindfuck, the whole thing. He’s thinking about how shy Keith was their first time, trying to hide his face when he came, but… no, no, not their first time. _Not you,_ he reminds himself. _Not yours_. Keith isn’t acting that way anymore.

“Fuck, baby,” Shiro says. He closes his eyes to get a hold of himself for a moment. Keith’s fingertips press hard against his nipples through his shirt and he hisses. “Can I fuck you? Is that okay?”

Keith nods and pulls off Shiro’s thumb with a gasp, and the spit trails down his chin. He doesn’t even bother wiping it and he’s climbing up off Shiro’s lap, off the couch. He takes a step backwards and almost trips on the coffee table, and grabs Shiro’s hand to make him follow. He drags them back through the apartment—Shiro’s own apartment—and he’s peeling his clothes off once they get to the bedroom. 

It’s been a few years, and it hits Shiro when they step through the doorway. It’s a good replica, like the rest of the apartment, missing some details. But Keith hadn’t been in here too many times, if Shiro recalls. Not perfect, but not bad. It’s the bedroom he shared with Adam, but… it isn’t. 

“Take off your pants,” Keith is saying, voice going ragged. He’s left a trail of clothes to the side of the bed and he’s clicking on the lamp on the nightstand. His belt clinks as he unbuckles it, and Shiro sees the pale skin of his ass as he shoves his pants down. He steps out of them and begins to rummage through the drawer next to the bed. 

He could take off his clothes, of course. He could do that. But he follows Keith, instead, and comes up behind him while he’s grabbing the lube. It makes Keith gasp in surprise when Shiro takes him by the hips and leans in. Clothed still, so that the shape of his hardon presses into Keith’s lower back through his jeans. He nips at the top of Keith’s ear.

“Keith…”

Keith shudders and drops the bottle onto the bed. He squeezes at his own dick with one hand and touches Shiro’s with the other. “What?”

“Tell me,” Shiro says. He runs a hand down Keith’s forearm, following it to where he’s touching himself. His hand dwarfs Keith’s, and he doesn’t stop him, just lays it on top. “I want you to tell me it’s okay.”

Keith whimpers and rolls his hips forward into their hands. 

“Tell me you want me to fuck you.”

“Shiro, please,” he mumbles. He turns his head to try to see and manages to kiss the corner of Shiro’s mouth. “Do it, please.”

“Do what?”

“Fuck me,” he kisses the side of Shiro’s jaw. “Please, I want you to. I need it.”

He lets go of Keith long enough for a playful shove towards the bed, then follows him down. Keith rolls onto his back and Shiro gets on top, cages him in. Kisses him again, hot on the mouth. Keith combs Shiro’s bangs back from his face.

“You don’t know how much I missed it,” he says. “I need you so much.”

“I missed you, too.” It feels strange to say it, he’s not sure if it’s a lie, if it counts. And yet there’s a pain in his body, deep, woven in, saying that it’s the truth. _We’ve missed this._

He feels beside them on the bed for the lube as he licks into Keith’s mouth, and when he has it he pulls away, kisses Keith’s jaw, his neck. He puts the cool bottle in Keith’s hand.

“Get yourself ready,” he whispers. “Show me.”

Keith fumbles the bottle and he fights with the lid for a moment as Shiro sucks at the skin over his pulse, stroking his fingertips along the opposite side of his face. He wants to watch, because he’s always liked to watch, and because part of him knows that Keith likes to be watched. _You’re gonna show me how you like it, right?_

But it’s something else, too, isn’t it? He’s shaking a little, feeling too hot, nervous and overwhelmed. He thinks maybe he’s not at home enough in this body, that he’s felt touch starved for so long that he’s over-sensitized. This is as much as he thinks he can achieve for now. He focuses hard to remind himself that it’s an illusion, it isn’t even his real body. They’re in the astral plane. They’re in the astral plane. They’re in the astral plane. He doesn’t want to forget.

The lube bottle clicks open and Keith is squeezing it into his hand, maybe too much. Shiro pulls back to watch him, rolls to lay on his side, sees how hastily Keith rubs it between his legs. Watches Keith’s face as he pushes in. His eyebrows come together, his eyelids flutter and almost close, but he stares up from the pillow with need.

“Shiro,” he whimpers, and his free hand goes around his cock. Sometimes the clone would punish him for this, restrict him. Sometimes they’d go whole rounds where he wasn’t allowed to touch. But that’s not what Shiro wants right now. 

“That’s it, baby,” he says. His hand twists so that he can pet Keith’s cheeks with his knuckles. He leans down to kiss above Keith’s eyebrow. “I want you so bad.”

Keith whines and his hips come up off the bed for a moment as he stretches himself.

“I wanted you for such a long time,” Shiro whispers. “I regretted it so much that I died without telling you.”

“Shiro-o—“

“Shh,” he kisses Keith’s temple. “Quiet, baby. Shh. Keep touching yourself for me.”

He strokes up and down Keith’s ribs, takes a moment to play with a nipple. Keith turns his head to press his face to Shiro’s shoulder, even rolling his cheek against the metal socket. 

“You’re so sexy like this,” he says, and his fingers trace down the line of Keith’s happy trail. There’s a wet spot where he’s dripping onto himself. Without thinking, Shiro brings his fingers to his mouth to taste it.

It’s familiar, but it’s not. Maybe like seeing in color for the first time. He sucks at his own fingertip and licks his lips a moment later. The memories want to scream that Keith tastes the same, and Shiro still wants to feel like he’s missed it, but it’s a first. It almost feels like he’s been robbed of this moment. 

“He always wanted you,” he says, and his hand goes flat on Keith’s abs, holding him gently down against the bed. He kisses Keith’s shoulder, his collar bone, sucks at a nipple. “You made him crazy.”

He lets go long enough to reach for the lube again, and pours it onto the prosthesis. 

“I feel like I remember it…”

His mouth finds Keith’s again, swallowing the little sounds he makes. Keith’s hips rise off the bed as Shiro’s right hand trails between his legs, strokes at the back of Keith’s knuckles for a minute. It’s smearing the lube everywhere, making a mess.

The new hand is so big, and Shiro feels apprehensive, maybe guilty for a moment, until he flashes on Keith, on his knees, riding a Galra dildo. He laughs a little in spite of himself, ignoring the confused look Keith gives him as he slides his middle finger down further, to where Keith is breaching his own body. 

“It’s almost like we’ve done this before,” he whispers, and he pushes in beside Keith’s fingers. Keith gasps and his legs try to close by reflex, squeeze in around Shiro’s forearm. He rocks his hips down, pushing Shiro deeper, further than he could reach on his own, and cries out as Shiro rubs a circle around his prostate. He has to stop jerking off for a moment, like he’s overwhelmed, and lays his free hand on Shiro’s chest, instead. His knees stay tight together and he rolls himself against Shiro’s arm. “It’s like he’s telling me things about you.”

“Shiro, please…”

“Stay,” Shiro leans back and sits up, stands. His prosthesis keeps working as he steps back from the bed and begins to undress, and Keith looks a little shocked. He reaches to hold it by the wrist, still sliding his fingers in and out of his hole alongside it. 

He’s gotten good at the one-handed undressing, he’d practiced on the trip to Earth. He has to hook his thumb into his waistband of his jeans and loose them in sections, and he doesn’t realize how painfully hard he is until his cock springs forward over the elastic of his boxer briefs. He steps out of them and palms himself, just watching the way Keith writhes there for a moment. It hurts in his chest.

The heat leaves the room and he slows down. Keith’s eyes close. He’s whining and shaking and Shiro’s trying to remember what he knows.

“Come here,” he says as he comes back towards the bed. He kneels on the floor and pulls his prosthesis back, grabs Keith by his thighs and drags him to the edge of the mattress. Keith lets out a surprised gasp and when he’s close enough he puts his hands on Shiro’s shoulders. 

“Shiro—“ he says again. Just _Shiro_ like it’s the only word he has left. Shiro kisses the inside of his thigh, where it’s soft and where he knew it would be soft, then leans into lick at his stretched hole. He thinks maybe Keith is throwing his head back, but he can’t really see. 

He uses the prosthesis to get the lube, otherwise out of reach, and uses his human hand this time, pressing into Keith, holding him open as he sucks at the pink skin. Keith’s legs tremble around him. 

“You’re gorgeous,” he says when he comes up for air. He licks at the muscle where Keith is stretched around his fingers. “You’re so gorgeous.”

The feel of the new hand is jarring when he tries to touch himself, the way it was in the real world, and his face heats thinking about it. Depressing, sort of pathetic. But he has time to figure it out now, now that he’s not feeling so guilty. 

“I used to think about you like this,” he says. He licks a line up to Keith’s balls, sucks at one of them for a moment. “All quiet and needy. I wanted you so bad.”

Keith whines when Shiro curls his fingers and sinks his mouth down around the dripping cockhead. His tongue finds the space between Keith’s head and his foreskin, and he remembers the clone figuring this out about him, too. Knowing that it would make Keith’s body spasm, make his fingernails dig into Shiro’s shoulders. 

There are other things he wants to say, but he keeps his mouth full as a distraction. It might be too much right now, he doesn’t want to make Keith uncomfortable. It’s more than being gorgeous. It’s being strong, and sharp, and that he’s so reckless and unafraid, so soulful when you least expect it. He sinks down on Keith’s shaft to keep it to himself, and the sounds Keith make encourage him. He thinks he has a hang on the prosthesis this time; it’s warming up and he’s finding the rhythm, the right grip. He shudders as he pumps himself and feels Keith hit the back of his throat.

“Shiro,” needy and soft above him, “Shiro please. Please fuck me. Please, I’m ready, I need you. I need you.”

He scissors his fingers for good measure, lets himself go and holds Keith down by the hip as he pulls off. Nips at his jutting hip bone as he grabs the lube again. He leans back and watches for a moment, pulls at the skin around Keith’s hole until he starts squirming in embarrassment. 

“Shiro…”

“Okay,” he says. He kisses Keith’s knee and rises, lifts him by the hips to move him back away from the edge. “Okay, baby. I got you.”

Time stalls and he doesn’t know how long it’s been, how much has gone by, and he breathes deep. It looks like his old bedroom, the one he shared with Adam, but it isn’t. He remembers Keith in here, helping him pack before Kerberos. He kept trying to give Keith his stuff, and Keith kept having to remind him that he had nowhere to keep it.

He thinks maybe his storage unit was destroyed in the invasion. It was full of books and photos and the rolled up bundle of old sci-fi posters. Looking back, he wishes he’d made Keith keep the little model DeLorean so that it would’ve been safe somewhere. 

“I’m here,” he whispers as he climbs on top, settles between Keith’s legs. He pets his hand up and down Keith’s ribs as they adjust, leans in to kiss him again. Slow, this time. Keith sucks at his bottom lip and reaches behind him, hands flat on Shiro’s back. He doesn’t react to the scars. 

Then again, they’re not new to him anymore.

“We’re okay,” he says, and rubs his cock against Keith’s hole. “We’re here, we’re okay.”

He realizes as he sinks himself in that he’s not sure which one of them he’s trying to comfort. 

Keith’s back arches off the bed and the gasp he takes is shaky. 

“Fuck, Shiro,” he squeezes his legs around Shiro’s hips. “Fuck, yes. _Yes_.” 

The first few thrusts are slow, gentle, and Shiro runs his hands through Keith’s hair to anchor himself. He has to adjust around all of it, needs a moment to collect himself. The last few days and navigating the memories have been one thing, and his pining for such a long time had been another. There’s also the _feeling_ of it, overpowering him, making his knees feel rubbery as he tries to balance. Jerking off in abject guilt here and there doesn’t cut it and he hasn’t gotten laid since joining Voltron. It’s been a while, it’s a lot.

He curls inwards as he starts to go faster, leans into Keith’s throat, sucks at the spot where his shoulder meets his neck. He can feel Keith’s pulse fluttering beneath his tongue.

“You’re so big,” Keith says when Shiro bottoms out. He wraps his arms around Shiro’s shoulders and pulls him in tight. “You’re still so big.”

He thinks maybe Keith marveled at it the other first time, too, and Shiro blushes as he begins to plow harder. He pushes himself up on his forearms so that he can see Keith’s face and kisses his cheekbone. Keith’s head is thrown back and he’s staring up at the ceiling, his eyes glassy. 

“Keith…” he touches Keith’s jaw, run a thumb across his bottom lip. “Baby look at me.”

It takes a moment, and Keith closes his eyes at first before he does it, but when he finally looks at Shiro his pupils are so big and dark and theres a crease of discomfort between his brows. His hips continue to roll and meet Shiro’s rhythm, and his voice drips out on the heels of all his little gasps, so Shiro doesn’t think he’s in pain or wants to stop, but it’s just… worry. He can’t remember seeing Keith this vulnerable, even in the catalogue of what he can access from the clone.

“What’s wrong?” Shiro asks. He rubs Keith’s earlobe between his fingers and Keith turns his head, pressing to the warmth of Shiro’s palm, but his eye contact doesn’t break. 

“Don’t leave again,” Keith says. His nails are starting to dig points into Shiro’s back. “Don’t leave me. I can’t do this without you.”

He can hear the sound of Keith crying from Black’s cockpit, and remembers pacing the darkness, thrashing, not knowing how to reach him. He slides his right hand down Keith’s torso and slips in under him, holds him by the small of his back, lifts him to angle him better. 

“I won’t,” he says, and says it again, and again, and hopes it’s not a lie. Keith shudders for a moment and his hole goes tight. He combs his fingers through Shiro’s hair and makes a fist, so that lush red pain blooms in his head. 

“I love you,” he lifts up for a moment and kisses the corner of Shiro’s mouth. “I love you, Shiro. I fucking love you.”

“Fuck, Keith,” Shiro breathes. He forces himself to slow down, almost overwhelmed. The pleasure pulls tight inside and has to focus to keep going, not wanting it to end.

“I’m sorry,” Keith says, blinking slowly at him, and he surges up to kiss, messy and frantic. Shiro pets the side of his face and coaxes him through it, gets him to slow down, too. “I didn’t know what to do. When you got back. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” their foreheads press together and he cradles Keith’s weight in his right hand as he pushes in deeper, and the heat in Keith’s body lights up his nerves. He feels it spread out in lines from his groin, prickling the surface of his skin, to the bottoms of his feet and his fingertips. Even his right hand, and it twitches in phantom sensation. He breathes out hard and Keith pulls his hair again. “We’re okay.”

“I was—“ a pitchy gasp interrupts him and he lets go so that he can squeeze around his own cock, “—an asshole about it. I should’ve—“

“Shh, baby it’s okay…”

“—just talked to you.”

His hand is clammy when he touches Shiro’s cheek and they watch each other. And there’s that feeling in the back of Shiro’s head again, squeezing gently, like a hand around the top of his spinal cord. He thinks the room is expanding around them and thinks they’re weightless, somewhere infinite. His vision flutters around them and in the corners of his eyes he can see the void, the stars, flickering a few times before snapping back on the bedroom.

“Is this real?” he asks. There’s panic rising in his chest and he doesn’t like the way it blends into the lust, the way it discolors his arousal. 

“Stay with me,” Keith says. He’s nodding his head. “We’re real. Stay with it. I want you.”

“Keith…” _What do I know?_ He squeezes his eyes shut and leans his weight down on his elbow, rubs his forehead. Keith’s breath is hot next to his ear. 

“Fuck me,” Keith’s legs go tighter around Shiro’s waist, pulling him in. “Focus, stay with me. Fuck me, Shiro.”

“Keith, shit—“

“Harder,” he whines. The backs of his knuckles dig into Shiro’s abs as he jerks himself off. “Fuck me harder.”

Shiro pants hard against Keith’s throat and he gives it a few hard thrusts but falters, feeling like he’s gonna lose it, and he chuckles into Keith’s skin. “Fuck, Keith, you’re gonna make me come.”

“Do it,” he bites at Shiro’s earlobe. 

Shiro’s still laughing a little, nervous. “I want this to last.”

“It will,” Keith says, and then he’s twisting, throwing his weight against Shiro’s body to roll them, and Shiro maybe remembers teaching him this in sparring, but he can’t think about it as he’s being flipped over. The room flickers again as his head smashes down into the pillows and the breath punches out of him, and he sees the ceiling and isn’t sure where his arm is and Keith’s hands are pinning him down to the mattress.

His knees squeeze around Shiro’s sides as he lowers himself on Shiro’s cock, and he rocks himself forward, hands splayed across Shiro’s pecs. 

“Do it,” he says again. “Come for me.”

Shiro grabs frantically at Keith’s ribs with his left hand, struggling for leverage as he thrusts upwards, their skin slapping on contact. Keith’s head hangs, his hair in his face and his voice strung taut, getting louder than Shiro wants to be comfortable with. But he thinks no one will hear them.

“Fuck,” he hisses, and his muscles are seizing as it comes on. Keith rides harder, squeezes him around the nipple, and Shiro arches his back, thinks his eyes are still open but all he can see are the stars. “Fuck, fuck, Keith, oh my god—“

“Fuckin love you,” Keith is whispering, and Shiro lets go. 

His right arm is somewhere beside them and he has to concentrate hard to bring it to life, but it finally finds its way around Keith’s hip and gives him the strength to hold him in place for a moment. He holds Keith down tight, rolls through his orgasm, feels it pulse deep in his body. He’s about to tip over the edge into overstimulation and he’s ready to tap out when he feels Keith’s cum splash out over his belly, hot and wet and it makes his vision clear long enough to see the way he’s wringing it out of himself, stroking himself through it. 

He looks powerful up there, Shiro thinks, looming over like that.

It takes a moment for his ears to stop ringing as they come down, but Keith finally slides himself off and collapses next to Shiro on his back. Shiro is still staring up at the empty ceiling, trying to remind himself that they don’t need air here, but he can’t quite catch his breath yet. His chest heaves softly as he stares up. Keith missed the stucco texture in the ceiling, and he considers correcting it, but… 

Keith rolls over and Shiro flinches when he tries to lean down over his chest. It makes Keith sit up, and he looks alarmed, like the afterglow is almost ruined.

“Fuck,” Shiro says. He delicately rubs over the spot where Keith touched and his skin is still thrumming from it. “Sorry, I’m…” 

I’m what?

Keith doesn’t say anything, waits patiently for Shiro to finish, and he realizes he can feel it all over, spreading through him. It’s tense, hurts his skin like getting goosebumps too fast, and he curls on his side. His teeth are chattering.

“Sorry, I feel kinda… my body…”

“What’s wrong?”

“I just feel sensitive all over, I don’t know.” 

He wonders if this will happen in the real world, too, and shuts his eyes in dread. 

Eyes closed, but he feels Keith’s weight leave the bed, hears his footsteps as he’s crossing the room, then padding down the hallway. Shiro wraps his human arm tight around his torso, shaking still, trying to relax. He counts his breaths and tries to remember what he knows, reminds himself it’s illusion. He’s okay, it’s not real pain. 

“Shiro,” Keith says when he returns, and when Shiro opens his eyes again Keith is at the edge of the bed holding out a glass of water. He’s even put a straw in it so that Shiro doesn’t have to sit up. It smoothes down the rough edges as he drinks, and Keith is wandering around the room again, out of sight. 

“Here,” he’s saying from behind him, and before he can look he feels the blanket on his shoulders. Plush, unrealistically so. Shiro doesn’t think he’s owned anything this soft in his life; Keith must have imagined it. The pride swells in his chest as Keith wraps it around him. 

“Thank you,” he says, and Keith takes the glass back when he’s ready, puts it on the nightstand. Shiro hears the click of the lamp, and then it’s dark. There’s orange sunset laying stripes across the room, sneaking through the cracks in the curtains, but it’s dim and warm and nice and he settles down. Keith’s arms come around him, but with the blanket between them it doesn’t jolt his nerves so bad. 

“I regretted it, too,” Keith’s voice is so quiet that Shiro almost doesn’t hear. He wants to ask what Keith is talking about, but Keith squeezes around him tighter, leans his cheek into the dent between Shiro’s shoulder blades. “You know, when I was alone here. I thought I died without telling you.”

“Oh.”

“I just…” he nuzzles in and Shiro’s heart is breaking a little. “You don’t know what it’s been like for me.”

“Why? What do you mean?”

The room seems to get darker, like Keith needs the cover to say it. Shiro stares at the window, the tiny sliver of fiery sky. 

“I’m like a virus,” Keith whispers. “Like I ruin everything I touch.”

“Keith…”

“I finally got to have you and it wasn’t even you. I didn’t get to keep you.”

Shiro wiggles his arm out of the blanket cocoon to put his hand over Keith’s, where it’s resting against his stomach. “You can keep me.”

“You don’t need me, though,” he sniffs and his hand twitches, but Shiro doesn’t let go. “No one needs me.”

His heart throbs in his chest, all the way to the back of his throat. It’s cold in his legs. He wants to roll over and look at Keith’s face, touch his hair, but thinks it might make him shrink away. He memorizes every inch of the curtain he can see. “We all need you.”

“Stop.”

“Your mom is on Earth right now,” Shiro says. He takes a deep breath. “And Kolivan came, too.”

“… Really?”

Shiro laughs under his breath. “Your mom is probably in the room with us right now. She’s been sleeping in a chair next to your bed.”

Keith laughs a little, too, despite himself.

“Civilians sent so many cards and flowers to the Garrison they’ve been carting it all to one of the empty hangars in the laundry bins to sort them out.”

“Hmph.”

“I know it…” he swallows, “…feels like forever in here. I used to feel so isolated.”

“Yeah.”

“I thought everyone would move on, I didn’t think anyone remembered me.”

“Shiro…”

“But I promise. Don’t let this place fuck with you.”

He shifts enough to pull Keith’s arm closer, roll them tighter together. 

“You’re okay,” he says. Their fingers intertwine and Keith makes a fist in the blanket. “We’re okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!
> 
> Just as a heads up I wanna let you know I'm starting a new job next week and it involves a lot of traveling and being stranded at sea without wifi so!!!! I'll update the last few chapters regularly if I am able to! It might be subjected to days I'm in port with internet. =P I've done my best to post on a regular schedule so I'll do my best to get the rest out on time!
> 
> Thank you so much for all the comments and stuff! I love you! It keeps me going!


	8. Chapter 8

It isn’t sleep, they don’t sleep. They don’t need to sleep here. But something happens as they lay there together.

Eventually they uncurl from each other, Shiro’s body calms down, he lays on his back and watches the ceiling. Keith rolls over, puts his head on Shiro’s chest. His face is squashed against the edge of Shiro’s shoulder appliance.

“Is that uncomfortable?” Shiro asks. He moves to sit up but Keith holds him down. “We can switch sides.”

“It’s fine,” Keith says. He sounds sleepy and soft. They go still.

Part of him wishes it could’ve always been like this, and as they settle down he feels the room around them fading. He can’t see Keith’s face, but knows he’s watching, too, seeing how the stars come out. He pets Keith’s hair as he watches the empty space around them and it’s not as scary as it used to be. 

But part of him knows, too, that they wouldn’t have gotten here on their own. He can’t waste time wishing things had been different; what matters is that they’re here. _Interconnected._

He doesn’t know how much time has gone by in the real world as he sleeps, how much longer until morning. He tries to figure out if he can feel his body from here, attached by a silver cord.

The energy cramps in his stomach for a moment, growing there, and he rubs his eyes. But he sees it, trailing out of his body, splitting above him, tangled into the stars in a vast web. 

It makes him wonder, again, how much of himself is only memories.

There are a hundred versions of how he could’ve wound up with Keith, and the ones he’s thought the most about are ones that leave them the least mangled. But he wonders, in other situations, what versions of themselves they’d be.

It’s cold in his chest when he realizes that he used to do this in death and captivity alike, to live somewhere else. He flexes the fingers of his right hand to squeeze around Keith’s hip. 

“This is real, right?” he asks. It would be one of the more elaborate scenarios he’s imagined to get together with Keith, but he doesn’t put it past himself. 

Keith laughs softly. “I hope so.”

It’s growing from Keith then, too, he sees. Willowy silver light from his chest that twists into Shiro’s, into the net, until he can’t tell them apart.

The fucked up truth of it is that he can’t know if it’s real, not for sure. He can feel the thought growing in his mind like it’s physical, like something touching his brain. It’s heavy, a black hole in his body, and it he doesn’t know how to adjust around the fact that he’ll probably be struggling with this for his whole life. He wonders if he’ll ever be able to relax and stop wondering what’s real, if he’ll ever stop caring. 

He reaches to touch the strands of light, watching the way his fingers cut through them like smoke. He can’t know the truth, but Black’s energy envelops them and feels reassuring. Maybe it’s okay.

Either way, he supposes the visions are never the unpleasant part. It’s the waking up that hurts. He thinks it’s real now, and focuses on Keith’s warmth, and tells himself not to worry about it until he has to. If he stays here, in this moment, he can enjoy it some more. 

They drift like this, and don’t speak, but he thinks he feels Keith’s thoughts. His calm is infused into the air around them. They’re okay. They’re okay.

He isn’t sure how much time goes by, floating like that. It’s mildly wondrous that it’s so much easier with someone else, less painful than it used to be. The blackness, the infinity, doesn’t grate against him the way it had. He doesn’t feel like he’s crawling out of his skin. It doesn’t choke him.

“Hey,” Keith says after a while. “What’s wrong?”

“What? Nothing.”

He idly picks at the edge of one of his scars, not realizing he’s even doing it until Keith’s hand comes down on his own to stop it. “You feel… I don’t know. Tense. I can feel it around us.”

“Sorry,” it’s an awkward angle but he tries to look down, reassure Keith with a smile. “It’s just… weird, being back here, that’s all.”

He watches it pass over Keith’s face and almost regrets that he said it, doesn’t want to make Keith feel bad when he’s finally this peaceful. But Keith doesn’t struggle with it, or apologize, or overreact. He shifts and leans up on an elbow so that he can peck a kiss onto the corner of Shiro’s mouth.

“Let’s have breakfast,” he says, like it’s the most normal thing in the world, and before Shiro can even react he feels the bed beneath them again, sees the smooth un-textured ceiling, feels where the soft blanket had fallen down around his hips.

He’s dizzy for a moment and his guts feel rearranged as he adjusts back to the room. His mind braces for the jarring impact that used to come with these shifts, but having Keith there smooths it over. Keith, who’s already out of bed and pulling his jeans on from where he’d left them on the floor, not even bothering with underwear. He does a little wiggle to get them up, they’re so skinny, and it does things to Shiro’s groin.

Then he’s going in the closet, and he’s tugging an old Ultra Sheriff t-shirt off a hanger. God, Shiro hasn’t seen it in years. Keith must have a memory of it. It’s too big on him and dangles down to show off a collarbone.

“Come on,” he leans over the edge of the bed to slap Shiro on the thigh. “I’m hungry.”

Hungry? 

Keith is out the door and Shiro just takes a moment, alone. He rubs his eyes, runs a hand over his jaw. In the real world he usually wakes up with a thin layer of stubble, but not here. He stands and stretches, wonders if Keith physically dressing was performative, because Shiro doesn’t feel the need to bother. He wills the clothes onto his body as he heads out, fully dressed by the time he makes it to the kitchen.

Keith is better at this than he was.

There’s coffee, with real sugar and milk like he hasn’t had since they’ve been home, and he’s stirring eggs with a fork. He’s opened the curtains so white sunlight fills the apartment. Somehow, it’s nicer than Shiro remembers, an ideal. Calm and soft, easy.

It breaks his heart a little bit, wrapping his head around Keith valuing this as a safe place so much. The only times he’d ever seen the morning light here was when he’d have a weekend pass, or a few days off for a holiday, and no family to spend it with. Just Shiro and Adam and video games and cheesy old sci-fi movies from the twentieth century.

“We should go racing later,” Keith says, not even looking up from what he’s doing. Shiro is too busy dying over his coffee to answer.

“Is this what you’ve been doing this whole time?” he asks a moment later. He gestures at his coffee, at Keith pouring eggs into the pan. “Eating food and listening to music and… what else?”

Keith shrugs. “Made sense to.” 

Made sense to. Of course it did.

So it’s breakfast and coffee, and then hover bike racing out over the desert, and Shiro isn’t sure if Keith’s heightened recklessness is a real world result of his experiences with Voltron or a way for him to flex his imagination in the astral plane. He can’t help how much the pride aches in his chest, even as he’s losing.

When Keith is awake, when he’s better, Shiro wants to try this again, for real. In a fair fight.

The landscape is more expansive than the one in the real world that Shiro remembers. He isn’t sure if that’s Keith’s creativity at play or if he just spent more time out here, went further than Shiro ever did. Neither answer would surprise him.

He trails behind, eyes locked on Keith’s shape through the dust he’s kicking up,. If this were back in time, he thinks his heart might freeze at the nose dive Keith takes into a canyon, but he realizes as he follows that he’s not even concerned. He knows Keith can do it now.

The thought presses around his head nicely, feels right. It’s something he _knows_.

Keith is already off his bike with his goggles hanging down around his neck when Shiro pulls up behind him and parks. There’s a knowing smile on Keith’s face, but he doesn’t taunt. Instead, he waits, holds his hand out for Shiro to take, and leads them down a rocky slope to a river. It’s trickling by, quiet, but Shiro looks at the canyon around them and knows it worked its way down here for years and years and years.

“I’d buy you dinner but I don’t think anything is open,” Keith says, and chuckles a little at the thought as he sits down on the ground, pulls Shiro with him. The afternoon sun doesn’t reach them down here but the rocks are still warm beneath their skin. 

“I don’t think I even thought to have food while I was here,” Shiro says. They’re sitting close, hips almost touching. After last night, Shiro thinks he shouldn’t feel as apprehensive about getting it all out in the open, but he still hesitates to touch. His hands curl in his lap and he watches the water.

“Can I ask you something?” Keith asks. He’s staring across the river at the wall of the canyon, expression giving nothing away. 

“Sure.”

“What did you mean about not being able to give me what he gave me?”

Shiro’s throat goes dry, but he’s not sure he has anything to say, anyway. He sneaks a look to the side, studying Keith’s profile for a moment. It’s the side with the scar.

“The…” shit. His hands fidget in his lap until Keith reaches over to hold one, still looking calmly ahead. It heats in his face. “You know, the… how he was with you. Like, in bed.”

He sees Keith’s mouth quirk into a smile that he’s trying to hide, and his mind knots last night together with something else. _Fuckin love you_ , he’d panted softly, but he’s not seeing the open, pleading look on Keith’s face. He’s seeing his own hands—the clone’s hands—holding a blade to Keith’s throat, the edge leaving a bloodless white line every time he snaps his hips forward and bounces him against the pillows. Prosthesis clamped over Keith’s shoulder for leverage, leaving bruises, other hand wrapped around the hilt of the knife. His knuckles are digging into Keith’s carotid artery and Keith’s face is red, but he’s enjoying himself. _Moaning for me like a whore_ , as the clone would accuse. 

Keith finally turns and they share a look. He seems amused by it, unbothered. Open and easy. Shiro’s face is still hot but it feels a little less uncomfortable. 

“You mean the kinky shit?”

“Well,” he rubs at the back of his head while he searches for the words. “The… hitting and stuff.”

All Shiro can hear for a moment is the water trickling by as Keith tilts his head to the side and studies him. The thoughts don’t come out as words but Shiro feels them anyway, like vapor between them. Patience and longing. Understanding. _Devotion_. Keith watches and waits, gives Shiro time to continue, but nothing else comes out. After a while Keith squeezes his hand.

“You know that doesn’t matter, right?”

_But you like it_ , he almost says. His jaw feels wired shut. Another awkward silence passes over before a soft, nervous laugh comes out. 

“Come on, Shiro. Don’t make me get sappy on you. You know it’s not about the sex, don’t you? You even said so.”

He remembers them sprawled in bed together, only able to see each other’s faces because of the stupid glowing plant Shiro kept in his room. They were holding their hands up to each other, measuring. For a few minutes the clone didn’t remember they were at war.

Is this real?

Maybe he’s taking too long to answer, because Keith rolls his eyes and tugs at Shiro’s arm, wrestling him down sideways until they’re on the ground, Shiro wrapped in his limbs. He breathes into Shiro’s hair.

“Don’t be a baby,” he teases. It should be more offensive than it is, disregarding his concerns like this, but Shiro doesn’t think he minds. And Keith is joking, but his hands stroke up and down Shiro’s back, comforting. Understanding.

They stay silent for a moment, and he adjusts around the idea of this new closeness between them, breathes in his scent, presses to the body heat. It’s not really that new at all, is the weird part. He isn’t sure what he’s supposed to do with it. 

“He was like that at first, too,” Keith says quietly. Shiro stares up at the sky, studying the shape it fills at the top of canyon.

“Oh?”

“He um,” his chin grinds against the top of Shiro’s head. “He told me about the gladiator shit.”

Right. 

Shiro sort of remembers that, but in snippets. He’s not sure how much they talked about. Part of him almost feels violated, like it wasn’t the clone’s place, but mostly he thinks he might be relieved that he doesn’t have to say it himself. It’s still not something he knows how to talk about. He lets it hang there between them

The sky is starting to blend down into a pale pink when Keith ruffles Shiro’s hair and moves beneath him, pushing to get up.

“I’m hungry, let’s get out of here.”

So they’re up, dusting themselves off, and Keith gives him a little squeeze on the waist before they head out. They don’t race back but seem to get there quicker, like Keith has cut the landscape in half. But the sun is setting when they arrive, the sky is colorful all around the house and when they come inside it’s filling the whole apartment with orange light through the floor-to-ceiling living room windows.

“You good with lasagna?” Keith asks as he waltzes into Shiro’s apartment like it’s his own. He shrugs out of his jacket and tosses it over the back of the couch as he passes through to the kitchen, and Shiro grabs it as he follows behind.

“Lasagna?”

Keith throws a glance over his shoulder and gives him a pointed look. “Relax. You can eat carbs here, you know.”

He’s opening the cabinets and pulling out boxes of pasta as Shiro goes to hang up their jackets. He has to hold his breath for a moment and remind himself they don’t need to breathe here. It seems so easy with Keith, so real. It’s a glimpse of a life they haven’t been able to find.

Every time he goes into the cabinet or opens the fridge, Shiro sees the way it’s stocked with exactly what Keith is looking for. He’s fascinated as he watches, but all of it makes sense. Everything in its place.

Shiro wants to ask about it, but he keeps his mouth shut. He sits at the island and just watches. There’s a pulse of memory and he’s not actually sure if it’s his or not. Them, on the castle bridge while everyone else was asleep. Sitting on the floor and watching the stars. It’s one of the only times Keith ever talked to him about how it had been after his dad died.

He’s resourceful, Shiro knows. Maybe the most resourceful person Shiro ever met. It makes sense that he’d figure out how to pass time here, that he’d fill it with so much detail.

It makes him feel like a dick that he doesn’t know whose memory it is.

“Do you want to put a movie on?” Keith asks as he finishes up and puts the pan in the oven. He wipes his hands on his pants. “Do you know anything well enough to watch it?”

Shiro laughs without meaning to. What a concept.

Keith is laughing, too, and comes around the island, tugs Shiro’s arm to bring to the living room. “I think the only stuff I’ve watched that much is really fucked up, if that’s something you feel like you wanna deal with.”

“That’s fine,” he says, and allows Keith to push him down onto the couch. Keith settles next to him and leans in as the TV comes on. “What about _Dark City_?”

God, the amount of times they’d watched it with Adam. Keith was always laying on the floor, surrounded by pillows and popcorn and sodas and Adam would always fall asleep midway through. His mind lands on it because it feels normal, like a fixture in the room, and he doesn’t think that hard about it. It seems obvious that between the two of them they can stitch together the whole thing. 

“You sure?” Keith asks. There’s concern in his eyes but Shiro shrugs it off. 

“Yeah. Yeah let’s try it.”

It’s a little weird sitting together like this, the thrust of the last few days heavy. Maybe at first, in the real world, it had felt more gradual. He tries to quantify those memories, feel the weight of time. His time dead and Keith’s time in the abyss. It really isn’t gradual at all, he supposes. So maybe it’s okay if he relaxes, if he stretches his arms out on the back of the couch and around Keith’s shoulders. 

He thinks Keith is just being respectful, letting him set the pace. None of this is new to him, it’s just been a while. 

But it feels natural, the way they click into each other’s sides. Shiro needs it.

Keith keeps peeking at Shiro’s face, at different intervals, watching for a reaction. When the timer goes off from the kitchen he pats Shiro on the knee and gets up, tells Shiro to stay. Shiro can hear him rummaging in the kitchen and moving dishes around but he’s glued to the screen. It’s starting to creep in but he doesn’t know how to feel yet.

They slide down to the floor between the coffee table and the couch to eat, and Shiro teases Keith a little bit because he’s not sure if this counts as being able to really cook. But it’s good. It’s warm and good and distracts him from the movie. Eventually Keith slides his plate away from the edge and leans into Shiro’s space, goes quiet. 

“This movie is… scarier than I remember it being,” Shiro says after a while, and chuckles to break up the tension. His face is feeling warm. Hand is getting cold. He can tell Keith is trying not to stare, but he keeps looking.

It’s a stupid thing to say, really. Obviously, the movie is exactly how he remembers it, or he wouldn’t be able to project it like this. It’s not scarier, really. It’s just…

“But imagine a life alien to yours, in which your memories were not your own, but those shared by every other of your kind,” the movie says. Shiro sits up straighter and tries to focus. His head feels a little fuzzy. “Imagine the torment of such an existence… no experiences to call your own.”

“Shiro?” Keith asks. He puts his hand on Shiro’s knee. He swallows hard and blinks a few times to reset his vision, it’s going blurry on the edges. The picture on the TV flickers and there are other images cut in that don’t belong there, but that Shiro remembers very well. It hurts all over his body for a moment. 

Keith is touching his face. “Shit…” he mumbles, and there’s a scrabble for the remote. The screen snaps to black and the remote clatters against the coffee table and Shiro shakes his head to come out of the daze. Keith leans in, touches Shiro’s hair, rubs at his cheekbones with his thumbs. 

“Hey,” he says. “You okay?”

It takes a minute to clear and Keith’s hand on his chest makes him realize he’s breathing hard. He looks so worried and it’s so embarrassing.

“Fuck,” Shiro whispers. He rubs his eyes and lets the room come back into focus. His apartment. Fuck. _Fuck_. Deep breath, and then two, and he curls his hand over Keith’s. He remembers how he’d always want to come check on Keith when he’d spend the night, right as he and Adam were getting ready for bed. _Let me just make sure he doesn’t need another blanket_ , Shiro would say, and Adam would be rolling his eyes, tugging him back to bed, telling him to stop being such a mom.

_Takashi he’s fine_. _Leave him alone._

“Adam…” Shiro says. He looks around the room for clues. The DeLorean on the shelf. A shadowbox with one of his medals. The TV unit he’d built while Shiro had watched, curled on his side on the couch and cradling his tingling arm to his chest. 

There’s so much pain on Keith’s face. “No, babe. He’s not here.”

Keith. And he’s older and there’s a scar on his face and it tastes like metal in his mouth while he tries to remember how they got here.

_Fuck._

He shuts his eyes to block it out, Keith’s face, the room, everything. Breathes. _Focus_. 

“What do I know?” he doesn’t mean to say it out loud and opens his eyes, ready to feel embarrassed again, but Keith is so open and knowing. He gets it. He doesn’t say anything but gives Shiro a small nod, like he should continue if he needs to. Shiro squeezes his hand.

He knows he’s Captain of the Atlas. The Galra fixed his arm and cured his disease. The castle was destroyed. 

His heart pounds hard into Keith’s palm. It feels like he might cry and he breathes deep to calm himself, even though he knows he doesn’t have to.Keith watches, patiently. 

He knows they’re not really here. Keith is in a coma. Adam is dead. He got out.

“I got out,” he says out loud. And Keith nods. 

“You got out.”

His knees are rubbery when Keith starts to move and drags them back up onto the couch. The blood rushes from his head and he sees spots for a moment but he’s feeling more aware again. He remembers Allura pulling him out. He remembers the trip the Earth. New arm. Atlas. Sendak. Keith. Sam’s face when he explained about Adam.

“Sorry,” he says. He forces out a dry laugh. “I came here to keep you company and you’re still the one taking care of me all the time.”

Keith doesn’t laugh out loud but he smiles and ruffles Shiro’s hair. He begins to lean in closer but hesitates. Blinks.

“Is it okay if I hold you?” he asks, and he’s straddling Shiro’s lap the moment he answers, arms around his shoulders. He pulls in tight, just stays there, and in the real world Shiro thinks it would be too much, but he doesn’t need to breathe here.

They stay still for a while, until Shiro loosens and rubs his hands up and down Keith’s back. He’s heavier than he looks. Maybe a Galra thing. He feels _dense_. It’s like he’s made of something else.

The way it presses him against the couch is good. Keith curls in and nuzzles against his throat and it’s a relief. He holds tight until Shiro’s breathing begins to even out, and then he’s loosening his grip to touch the back of Shiro’s head, rub his fingers in little circles on his scalp.

“You’re good at this,” Shiro says. Keith huffs a breath of laughter, warm against Shiro’s skin.

“Yeah, well. I’ve had some practice.”

He doesn’t let it bother him, doesn’t go tense over it. Instead, he relaxes into Keith’s touch. That’s fair, he supposes. Actually, it’s reassuring. If he possesses a subconscious map of all Keith’s erogenous spots, it’s fair that Keith knows how to bring him back from a panic attack. It’s weird, but it makes sense. 

His mind expands around it, he adjusts. This is their reality now.

“I can still change it,” Keith mumbles against him.

“What?”

“The apartment. If it’s weird.”

“No,” he reaches to rub Keith’s shoulders. “It’s not weird. I just… get confused sometimes. It’s not your fault.”

Keith makes a grumpy noise like he doesn’t quite buy it. 

It’s quiet, calm. It hasn’t occurred to him since they’ve been here that he can’t hear the ambient city outside the way he used to. It used to fill the apartment. The gentle water-rush sound of traffic and occasional car horns. In this place it’s silent, and it should feel eerie, but it’s peaceful. He doesn’t feel isolated, hiding out here with Keith, somewhere else. It’s not how it felt here when he was alone.

Keith cuddles in, breathes into Shiro’s hair. Shiro thinks he might remember moments like this, but it all blurs together and he stops trying to make sense of it.

“Let’s race for real when we get back,” he says after a while, just to check the temperature of the room. Keith shifts against him, his lips press against the outside of Shiro’s ear. 

“You still think you can beat me?”

Shiro laughs. “I don’t know. I wanna find out. But it’s gotta be a fair fight. You play dirty out here.”

“Yeah, yeah…” he leans back, away from Shiro’s body so that they can see each other’s faces. He doesn’t say anything, but Shiro can tell he’s checking in, appraising the situation. The newness of the intimacy almost strikes him again, but it feels so old and familiar, throbs down to his core. It’s like Keith can see through him, like he’s seeing both of them. 

The way it kicks inside isn’t panic, but it’s… exhilarating. He lays his hands on Keith’s sides, hooks his thumbs into hipbones. 

Keith gives him a crooked smile. “You good?”

He nods and squeezes Keith’s hips. “Yeah. Sorry. I think I’m okay now.”

“Don’t apologize.”

Shiro almost argues but Keith cuts him off. “Don’t apologize for that, okay?”

“Okay.”

He rolls his shoulders and tries to relax, lets his head fall back against the couch. The angle makes Keith seem bigger, higher above him. One of his fingers slots into a belt loop on Keith’s jeans. It feels nice, being together like this. He can feel the anxious energy rearranging inside, repurposing. 

“How did…” he shifts under Keith’s weight. 

Keith raises an eyebrow like he knows what Shiro is about to ask, but doesn’t try to help. Shiro’s face goes a little warm.

“How did we figure it out before?” his nerves are squirming but the apprehension is almost indistinguishable from the way it mixes to heat creeping in his gut at the thought. Keith’s eyes go steely, dark as he fixes Shiro in place. “You know, the kinky shit.”

“Oh, I knew what you meant.”

Shiro’s clothes are feeling hot and he shifts again. 

“I just. You know.”

Keith just stares. God, he’s not giving an inch.

“When I told you he was me… it was that stuff, too.”

There’s another long moment of Keith’s deadpan, pushing Shiro almost to the edge of discomfort, but right as it’s almost too much, the façade cracks and Keith laughs, slumps forward against Shiro’s chest. He rolls himself over Shiro’s groin like he has to feel the arousal for himself. 

“I knew this would happen,” he says. He squeezes his thighs around Shiro’s. “He was always horny after panic attacks, too.”

Shiro lets go of Keith so that he can cover his face. “Stop, he was not.”

Keith reaches between them and touches Shiro over his pants. “You sure?”

“Well when you’re always climbing all over us…”

He’s still mostly soft and his breath goes shaky as Keith palms him through the fabric. His fingertips trace the shape of it and he pets gently, unhurried, coaxing the blood to rush in. Shiro peeks at him from behind his hands. 

“Well?” he pitches forward off the couch for a moment as Keith squeezes, then settles back down. He takes Keith by the hips again. “Tell me.”

Keith’s thumb presses down hard and he leans in to kiss the corner of Shiro’s jaw, breath warm. “He would get nervous that he was pushing too hard. He was scared he’d let go and make me uncomfortable. Didn’t trust himself.”

“Y-yeah,” he slips his hands under Keith’s shirt, holds him by his lower back. “That’s exactly it. How did you get through it?”

A memory cuts in and he pulls Keith closer, kisses him, bites his bottom lip. They were on their knees, Keith’s back to Shiro’s chest, and he was whimpering as they stroked him with their human hand. The Galra hand was warm, glowing dimly, and Keith kept squirming and babbling when they would touch their fingertips to his skin. Not hot enough to really hurt him, but Shiro remembers seeing pink handprints on him after. 

The thought of it makes him shudder. The way Keith would hiss, the way his old arm used to ache with phantom pain when he used it like that. It used to hurt him, too, but there was a loop they were stuck in, his and Keith’s pleasurepain feeding into each other. 

It’s still hard to imagine; the thought of acting on it makes him freeze in place, even as the memory itself has him growing in Keith’s hand. Keith bites the outside of Shiro’s ear and chills break out on his arm.

“I would beg.”

Fuck. “W-what?”

He can feel Keith’s smile against his skin, triumphant that he’s finally got Shiro where he wants him.

“I’d beg,” he says. 

_Shiro, Shiro, please please please…_

“Fuck…”

His hips tilt up to Keith’s hand, pressing for more contact. 

“I figured that out about you, Shiro. You’re needier than you pretend to be.”

“Keith…”

“He needed the reassurance. He needed to know I liked it.”

His pants are starting to feel painful, and he goes to shift, drags his hands down to grab Keith’s ass. 

“I like it, Shiro,” he whispers, and kisses Shiro’s temple. He lets go of Shiro’s dick and puts his hands on Shiro’s shoulders, his grip tight. “I need it.”

Shiro squeezes his ass and Keith grinds down. They’re both hard and Shiro kisses him again. 

“I want it, Shiro,” he says when they break apart. He sucks at Shiro’s lip, licks into his mouth. “Will you tell me to suck you?”

It takes him a moment to catch his breath, and Keith’s hands are between them, popping the button on his jeans. 

Keith’s voice is a little higher, strained, next to Shiro’s ear as he unzips and wraps his hand around Shiro’s cock. “Please, Shiro?” 

Fuck. Keith’s hand is so warm. “Do it,” he says. His voice cracks. “Show me how much you want it.” 

One more kiss, wet so that a trail of spit strings between them when Keith pulls away, and then he’s sliding back, off Shiro’s lap, off the couch, settling on the floor between Shiro’s spread knees. He never lets go of Shiro’s cock as he does it, like it anchors him, and he keeps stroking as he leans in. 

He used to wake the clone up like this sometimes. It’s in Shiro’s head as quickly as it leaves, and he blinks hard in the present, watching how Keith lowers himself. His hand slides up and down, slick with saliva, in time with the way he bobs his head. If the visions haven’t been enough to convince him, the technique alone gives away all the practice Keith has had. 

“Fuck, baby,” Shiro moans. He looks away so that he can lean his head back against the couch and he stares up at the ceiling. For a moment all he can see is the faded gray paint and his vision ripples on the edges as his nerves light up in Keith’s mouth. He can feel the illusion straining, because it’s almost hard to focus, and he grabs at Keith’s hair to stay in place.

Keith pulls off with a wet pop and gasps for air, stroking harder as he speaks. “Pull my hair,” he says. 

That’s easy enough, Shiro figures. Baby steps, right? His cock throbs as he makes a loose fist, not pushing too hard yet. Keith’s eyelashes flutter and his mouth hangs open. 

“Thank you, sir,” he pants, and then he’s back at it. _Sir_. It echoes in Shiro’s head. 

When he gives Keith another little tug he feels the whining vibrate through his dick, and he pets Keith’s jaw with his other hand in appreciation. 

“Fuck, Keith,” he gives a small half-thrust, experimenting, and sees how Keith’s free hand flies to his own cock. He’s squeezing himself over his pants.“You’re such a good boy.”

It feels like the floor drops out from under him for a moment, trying the phrase on, but fuck. It turns him on the way it used to. Not just how it had turned on the clone, but before. Before he’d been too maimed to try. 

Keith pulls off again, breathing heavy. He’s still rubbing himself over his pants. “Tell me I’m not allowed to touch myself,” he says. He opens the fist on Shiro’s dick so that he can lick a broad stripe from base to tip and presses his tongue hard into one of Shiro’s veins. 

He has to clear his throat before he can say it. It burns up to his ears. “I didn’t say you could touch. Be good, baby.”

There’s a last squeeze, desperate, and his brow creases as he lets go. “I’m sorry, sir.”

He’s so pretty.

“Come back up here,” Shiro says. He tucks a strand of Keith’s hair behind his ear as he comes back up into Shiro’s lap and leans in for a kiss. It’s slightly bitter with Shiro’s precum. He pets the underside of Keith’s jaw with his fingertips. “You really like this?”

Keith swallows hard and nods. 

“Tell me more,” Shiro says. He twists a strand of Keith’s hair by its ends, watching how the sensation plays across his face. “Tell me what else you want me to do to you.”

“I want you to fuck me,” he whispers, right against Shiro’s mouth. 

Shiro’s starting to relax and lets out a soft laugh. “Well we knew that part. You’re not subtle. Be specific.”

Keith lets out a shaky breath and squirms in Shiro’s lap. “You can call me names.”

“Oh?”

“Call me a slut. Tell me it’s pathetic that I want it this bad,” his eyes close and he takes a deep breath to steady himself. “I want you to scold me for begging like a whore.”

_Begging._

He kisses Keith again as an excuse to buy time, to think for a moment. It’s still hard to take control of any of the memories, to pinpoint them, to find what he wants. They still seem to be coming in waves, at random, but he closes his eyes and focuses on the heat of Keith’s mouth, tries to make it connect inside. Something tells him that there’s more to Keith begging than he’s admitted just yet.

Ghosts of it echo in his mind and he dips his fingers beneath Keith’s waistband, pressing indents into his ass. His dick is still out and rubs against the front of Keith’s jeans, and it hurts for a moment but burns clarity, lets him focus. He remembers Keith doing this, begging. Remembers him acting all slutty and needy, kicking his voice up an octave to whine in their ear, tugging at their clothes. It’s hot, for sure. Shiro feels affected by it and won’t pretend he isn’t. But it’s performative. _Please fuck me, I want you so bad, I need your cock_ , etc. etc. etc. and Shiro won’t call it _insincere_ but he’ll say it’s only the first level. There’s more, if he pushes. 

It’s deeper, further away, still vague in his mind, but he thinks he knows if he pushes that he’ll unlock something else. Because there’s more to begging than this game Keith is trying to play. There’s gasping, and writhing, his voice strung tight and ready to snap. There are tears.

Keith will beg, but Shiro thinks he’s supposed to tell him _no_.

“You’re so needy,” he whispers against Keith’s mouth. Keith leans in kiss again but Shiro pulls back so that he only gets empty air. He seems startled when he opens his eyes. 

“Shiro…”

“You want me to fuck you?”

“Please,” he runs his hands over Shiro’s chest, thumbs over his nipples. “I missed you, I need it.” 

“You missed it?” Shiro asks. He raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t I just fuck you last night?”

Keith’s cheeks dust over with pink but he doesn’t stop the way he rolls his hips, trying to get any friction against Shiro’s body. He traces over Shiro’s nipple again, harder, and _fuck_ , it’s so unfair that he knows how sensitive they are. Shiro has to focus to school his face, stay neutral. 

“I need it,” Keith says again. “You just…”

A small noise comes from the back of his throat and it looks like he’s reaching to touch himself again. Shiro takes him gently by the wrist to stop him. 

“I just what?”

His Adams apple bobs as he swallows and he leans in to leave a wet kiss on Shiro’s cheek. “Do you think I’m too desperate? Do you think…” 

The color deepens in his face and it washes satisfaction through Shiro’s body. We’re getting somewhere now. Reaching edges.

“Do I think what?” he asks. He pets Keith’s hair, deliberately gentle, too gentle, condescending. “What is it? What do you want me to say?”

He kisses Shiro’s jaw, his throat, leans his head into the curve between Shiro’s neck and shoulder. “Call me… a horny little freak. Tell me I’m a mess.”

“Oh,” he says. He rubs at Keith’s shoulders like it’s supposed to be comforting. “Come on, sweetheart. You don’t have to talk about yourself like that.” 

Keith’s body goes rigid in his lap and Shiro’s glad he can’t see the way it makes him smile. He kisses the side of Keith’s head, over his hair.

“You’re really turned on, aren’t you?”

There’s just a whine in response. He pats Keith on his ass.

“Why don’t you take your clothes off, sweetie.”

He looks a little dazed when he sits back, almost confused, but he obeys. He stands and the shirt comes off first and his nipples are hard. Shiro strokes lazily at his dick as he takes the sight in. Keith grimaces as he unbuttons his jeans; it must be painful, rubbing against him in all the wrong ways, and he remembers how Keith never put on underwear that morning as he unzips and his cock springs free. It’s red and dripping already.

“That’s your own fault,” Shiro says as Keith shimmies out of his pants. “Wearing pants so tight like that. Like you’re putting yourself on display. Does it hurt?”

Keith nods his head but doesn’t answer out loud. 

“See, that doesn’t make sense to me,” he rubs over his slit, feels how wet he’s getting, and stands. He glances down at the smear of precum on his thumb and offers it to Keith, presses into his mouth. “You’re so handsome, you don’t need to be so provocative. You need the attention that bad?”

His eyebrows come together and it makes him look sort of hopeless. And he’s grown a bit since all the memories Shiro can draw on, but he seems small like this. 

“Come here,” Shiro says. He guides Keith by the hips so that he’s kneeling on the couch, bent over the back. He arches so that his ass sticks out, and Shiro doesn’t feel ready to hit just yet tonight, but he pets it, admires the soft skin. His right hand is big enough to cradle Keith’s entire ass; he spreads his fingers out to see, to measure, and files it away for later. He thinks if they graduate to spanking one day it’ll be interesting to experiment with, but not now. He lays his palm over the middle and gives Keith a squeeze so that he gasps, presses his forehead to the back of the couch. 

“Please, Shiro…”

“Hmm?” he rubs his warm human hand against the small of Keith’s back. “Please what, baby?”

“I want you to fuck me.”

“I know,” he traces his fingers down Keith’s spine, runs a tiny circle around his tailbone. “I know you do.” 

“Come on.”

“I thought you were going to beg?”

Keith turns to look at Shiro over his shoulder. His face is getting a little shiny. 

“Show me,” Shiro says. 

“Show you what?”

He leans his weight down into Keith’s back so that he can get closer, kiss Keith’s cheek, speak low by his ear. “Show me where you want me. Show me what a greedy little slut you are.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Keith whispers, probably to himself, and he turns away to press his head to the couch again. Shiro gives him a beat, and when he still hasn’t moved, he guides Keith’s hands back to his own ass. It has him leaning all his weight on his shoulders, balanced on the back of the couch. He squeezes around Keith’s hands so that both of their fingers dig into his ass. It’s small and cute like the rest of him, and there’s the unexpectedly dense Galra muscle beneath, but the flesh is soft, plump. Shiro squeezes around it a couple more times for good measure, and it makes him laugh a little. Keith doesn’t say anything.

“Show me,” he says again, and lets go, steps back to watch. He crosses his arms over his chest as he waits, and Keith looks back at him again, half his face still crushed to the couch so that Shiro only sees on of his eyes peeking out from his messy hair. Face is redder, brow creased. He looks ready to pout. Shiro starts to put his cock back in his pants. “I thought you wanted me to fuck you…”

His eye shuts and the blush spreads down his neck as he looks away and finally does it. There are white marks in the skin beneath his nails as he spreads himself, and a muffled whine comes out from the top of the couch cushion. Shiro is still holding his cock and takes a moment to touch, experiment more. Two of his fingers seem to work, they’re so large; he plays with the rhythm and pressure and bites his lip to keep from making any noise. 

Keith strains as he holds himself open, shakes a bit. He wiggles his toes in anticipation, but Shiro waits, gives it a little longer. It’s tempting to get it over with, take him right now. His whole body feels warm, but there’s a bigger game to be played here. 

“Baby?” he asks, and Keith’s hole clenches. He wants to touch it and wills himself not to. Touches himself, instead. He can’t feel it on the prosthesis, but looks down and sees how he’s dripping all over his fingers. 

“Mmffh?” Keith says into the couch, and doesn’t turn back until the silence stretches too long between them. He shakes his head to flip his hair out of his eyes as he looks back over his shoulder again.

“Was there something you wanted to say to me?”

God, his face is really red. It almost makes Shiro feel bad, but it’s sparking in his gut too much to care. “Please will you fuck me?”

Shiro laughs and reaches to touch this time, with his human hand so that he can feel the warmth. He just presses his fingers against the muscle, feels the crinkled skin. He drags back and forth so that it pulls, so that Keith shudders. “Didn’t you… ask me to do something else? Was I supposed to call you names?”

Keith’s grip on himself almost falters, and he almost looks away, and his face twitches in resolve, but he doesn’t answer.

“What’s wrong?” Shiro asks. He pushes harder, flat against Keith’s hole without breaching it. “We’re embarrassed now?”

“Shiro…”

“I thought you were supposed to be some… pathetic little slut. I thought you were going to beg. How am I supposed to know this is what you want?”

“It is!” Keith says, too fast. His face contorts for a moment. “I want it. Tell me…”

“Tell you what?”

He has to shut his eyes. “Tell me I’m whore. Tell me…”

Keith’s hole flutters beneath Shiro’s fingers and he lets up the pressure, teases lightly, begins to draw away. 

“You’re a whore,” he whispers. He draws a circle around Keith’s hole and jerks his own cock a few times. “What else?”

“Tell me…” Keith turns so that the couch muffles his words, but Shiro can make them out. “Tell me you want to fuck my tight little asshole.”

“Oh,” a sound comes out of Shiro’s chest. “Baby, yes. I want to fuck your tight little hole. It’s so pretty.”

He pulls away and lets go of himself and grabs a bottle of lube off the coffee table. It wasn’t there before and he doesn’t need to look, never takes his eyes off Keith. It feels good to take advantage of the astral plane, to remind himself they’re there, to stay centered and remember what’s real as he flips the lid and squeezes it out onto his metal fingers. They’re big, thicker than a real hand, but something tells him that Keith can take it. He’s sure he’ll be more cautious in the real world, but for now… 

Keith lets out such a pathetic noise as Shiro sinks his finger inside. He doesn’t pause to let Keith adjust, doesn’t stop at his first knuckle, just plunges all the way in. He reaches up with his left hand to tuck Keith’s hair behind his ears, to see his face. His skin is warm.

“Did you just squeak?” he asks, and hooks his finger to pet against Keith’s prostate. He laughs under his breath. “Keith, are you drooling? On my couch?”

“Sorry,” he says, and his hands squeeze tight around his ass cheeks. 

“Wipe your mouth,” Shiro says. “But then go right back to what you were doing. Keep showing me where you want me.”

It’s quick, and Shiro sees the white imprints of his fingers on his skin as he lets go for a moment to wipe his mouth on the back of his hand, but then he’s spreading open again. Obedient. 

“You told me to call you a slut and I didn’t believe you,” he muses, and thrusts his finger in and out. “This is ridiculous.”

He eases a second fingertip against Keith’s rim but doesn’t push through yet. Holds it there to test him, see if he’ll respond. 

There’s a whimper, and Keith squeezes harder into his own skin, pulls himself apart even more. Shiro wonders if he’ll bruise himself. 

“I need more,” he says quietly. “Please, Shiro. More.”

Fuck. 

His new hand doesn’t feel sensation the way his real one does, but the sensors tell him that Keith is tight, gripping around him as he adds a second finger. It’s almost a shame not to use his human hand to feel the heat, but he likes the size of this one. He likes watching the way Keith stretches around him, likes the desperate noises he makes. He likes the angles he can use and likes the way he can twist inside, enjoys the dexterity. Keith is panting and his toes curl. 

“Shiro,” his hands are shaking. “Fuck me, please. I need you to fuck me.”

“Greedy,” Shiro mumbles.

“You’re gonna m-make me come,” he whines. “Please, Shiro. Sir.”

“What is it, baby?”

“I wanna come on your d-dick.”

“Oh?” he scissors his fingers and Keith arches his back. “How do you want me to fuck you?”

“Hnngh,” his shoulder blades squeeze tense. “Hold… me down…”

“All right, baby. I can do that. What else?”

“On my knees. Fuck me hard,” he hisses at a particularly precise strike to his insides and his body seizes. “Fuck, Shiro I’m gonna come—“

“No, you’re not,” Shiro says, but doesn’t stop. He pets the back of Keith’s thigh with his free hand. “You’re gonna come on my dick, right?”

“Please, fuck—“

“Don’t.”

“Fuck, Shiro,” he’s squirming, “stop, fuck—“

“Stop?” heat flushes over his skin because it feels… dangerous, almost. He tilts his head and continues to move, and Keith is trembling, but he… remembers that they have a safe word. He remembers it. He strokes hard into Keith’s body. “You remember your safe word, right?”

“Yeah, I—“ he whimpers against the couch. “Fuck, I’m gonna come, I’m gonna come.”

His body is winding tight and Shiro believes him this time, and pulls out at the last second. His human hand swoops below Keith’s body to grab his dick, and he feels it convulsing in his hand, a pathetic little contraction that he ruins by squeezing too hard. 

“Fuck, fuck,” he’s whining and shaking and lets go of his ass and Shiro lets him. His arms curl over the back of the couch, claw at it like he’s trying to hang on.

“I don’t know why you’re whining so much,” Shiro says. He takes a moment to jerk himself, behind Keith’s back so he doesn’t see, just to relieve some pressure. _Fuck_. He watches the set of Keith’s shoulders relax, watches as the shaking evens out a little bit, gives him a second to recover. “I thought this was what you wanted. This is what you want, right?”

“Yes…” he’s breathing hard. “Yes, sir. It’s what I wanted.”

“That’s right. You were begging for it.”

“I know. I know.”

“You know the whole world is praying for you right now? Sending flowers to the Garrison? They think the Black Paladin is this amazing hero and here you are begging to be fucked in the ass like a slut.”

He leans on his elbows and covers his face with his hands. “I… I know…”

“Imagine they knew what you were doing right now. Imagine they knew you were really like this? They’re so worried that you’re suffering but here we are.”

“Shiro…”

“What?”

His hands scrub over his face and he wipes his mouth, and his eyes are glassy when he turns to look at Shiro. “Hold me down.”

Shiro cups his hand on the back of Keith’s neck and begins to guide him sideways to bend him down on hands and knees on the couch. He sees the shiny spot on the cushion where Keith was leaking and squeezes him as he shoves him into position. “You fucked up my couch,” he says. 

“Tell me to clean it up.” 

“Oh, you’re going to. You might need to call a cleaner. God, that’s gonna be so humiliating for you.”

He reaches to take his shirt off but Keith turns and grabs his hand. “Leave your clothes on?”

Shiro raises an eyebrow. He might remember some times like this but wants to hear Keith say it out loud.

“It’s…” the color had returned to his face and now his cheeks burn red again, “…embarrassing. Being the only one naked.”

He pinches Keith’s cheek. “Okay, baby.”

They hold eye contact for a moment, long enough that it’s almost weird, until Keith lets go of his hand and faces forward again, settles down on his forearms. He stays still while Shiro grabs the lube again.

“You’re a good boy,” he says as he strokes it onto himself. It’s only half acting, he thinks. He means it. For his own indulgence he touches Keith’s hole again, this time with his human hand, to feel how hot and wet he is, how loose and ready. He slips two fingers in to their first knuckles, hooks into the muscle, tugs him open. Keith moans and arches his back. 

“Shiro, please. Do it now, please.”

“Such a good boy,” he whispers again, and then he’s sinking himself in. The warmth shocks through his whole body and quickens his nerves with something like _relief_. Because fuck, if teasing Keith wasn’t an exercise in denying himself, as well. But it’s worth it. It’s worth it. The first thrust is slow and punches the breath from his chest, and he sees Keith bunching his fists into the cushions, and he reaches to hold him around the hips. It’s surreal how small Keith’s waist looks in his prosthesis.

“God, yes,” Keith breathes. He rocks his hips back to meet Shiro halfway and his voice pours out meaningless noise as Shiro bottoms out. Shiro stays still for a moment, marveling at the way Keith starts to do the work himself, rolling back and forth and fucking himself. He fucks Shiro like he needs it, like he’s been dying.

His belt jangles between them, hits against the back of Keith’s thigh. Keith presses back, deep, and Shiro squeezes around his waist to hold him in place. He feels Keith’s ribs expanding in his hands as he tries to breathe.

There’s an odd moment of sensory overload where the memories overlap; Keith and the clone, Shiro and Adam. Probably poor form to think of your ex but it’s so infused into the room. 

Again, something Keith couldn’t possibly know. Shiro squeezes around his ribs and knows Keith is struggling for air. Maybe he remembers Adam being this way, pressing him down like this. He remembers the way his body would go frantic at the feeling, on instinct, and how good it felt to let the fear blend into the pleasure. Every few thrusts he eases his grip, to let the air in, and he knows all the blood and oxygen in Keith’s body is rushing straight for his cock. 

“Shiro, fuck,” Keith moans into the couch cushion. “Like that, like that. Hold me down.”

“Can you breathe?” he asks, and marvels at the way his Altean hand can reach around. His thumb traces back and forth over one of Keith’s vertebrae and his other fingertips press into the soft flesh over Keith’s navel. 

“I’m fine,” he pants. “You can go harder. Come on.”

He yanks Keith back, pulls him hard so he can’t move. He bends down to speak closer to Keith’s ear.

“Do it yourself,” he says. “If you want it so bad, do it yourself.”

God, the way he struggles, trying to fuck himself back onto Shiro’s dick with barely any mercy from the tight grip around his waist. His hips roll back and forth and he presses his forehead to the couch, whimpering.

“Pull my hair,” he says, and it shocks across Shiro’s body again. Baby steps. Easy. He lets go with his human hand and runs his fingers through Keith’s hair a few times like he’s admiring it, petting him like a precious thing. He’s still apprehensive and there’s a moment where he feels detached from his own body, watching his own hands move. It takes a rigid measure of focus to stay in the moment and compartmentalize the idea that his strength is only capable of destruction. 

But… 

It’s easier than he thought it would be. He’s keeping his body still, letting Keith do the work, and the sounds he’s making are such clear encouragement. It keeps away the dull echo of the arena that he expected to hear. 

So the muscles in Keith’s back ripple when he does it, and his body goes tense, and thehorny noises coming from him are the only thing Shiro wants to hear. He doesn’t pull hard right away, but Keith grinds himself down like he needs Shiro deeper, and he makes a fist in Keith’s hair. Keith’s shoulder blades rise like fins from his back.

He’s heavy. He doesn’t look like a boy like he used to; there’s strength in every part of him, broad and dense and Shiro maybe remembers something about how strong he is, the way he can put up a fight. 

“Fuck, yes, Shiro, like that, fuck me like that,” he whines, and Shiro knows he won’t break. It floods arousal through his body. 

“Are you gonna come like this?” he whispers. He pulls Keith by his hair so that his back arches and he’s almost sitting up. He bites at Keith’s earlobe and sees the way it raises the hair on his arms. 

“Yes, I’m close,” he says. He lifts one of his hands and puts it over the prosthesis, squeezes their fingers together. “Call me a slut.”

“God, Keith,” he says. The drawn out whine falling from his mouth stutters with the rhythm of Shiro’s hips. “Such a slut.”

“Can I touch?” his hand is already going loose on Shiro’s, like he’s going to reach for himself, but Shiro slips out from under him and grabs his hand, presses it hard into his own body. 

“No,” he says gently. “Come like this. No touching.”

“Shiro—“

“No,” more firm this time, with another tug of his hair for emphasis. “Show me what a whore you are.” 

“Fuck, oh my god—“

“Are you gonna come all over my couch?”

“Shiro, I—“

“Do you know how expensive it was? That stain is never going to come out.”

His limbs are going rigid and his motions slow, so Shiro takes over again, fucks into him hard so that he cries out. 

“I would make you lick it up but I bet you’d like it, wouldn’t you?”

The noise that comes out isn’t words and he’s shaking.

“Everyone who comes over is gonna see the stain and I’m gonna have to tell them that my whore of a boyfriend can’t keep his legs closed.”

“Shiro—“

“Is that what you want?”

“ _Yes_ , tell them. Tell them. Tell them—“

The energy is coiling all over his body, ready to let go. He has to duck his head and presses into the side of Keith’s neck, inhales his scent. 

“Fuck, that’s so hot. Do it, fucking ruin it,” he mumbles, and then Keith is letting go. He cries out and squeezes tight around Shiro’s cock, his arm shakes holding up his own weight against the cushions. “Yes, baby, like that. Make a mess.”

The sob that comes out is almost pathetic, high pitched and desperate, and he’s wiggling to get his hand free but Shiro doesn’t let him go. There’s a moment where he really does consider making Keith lick it up off the couch. He imagines the blush that would burn onto his cheeks and the way it might smear across his chin. He imagines finishing in Keith’s mouth and adding to the mess, imagines it spilling out of him. Maybe Keith’s eyes would go watery as he choked, maybe he’d blink back tears and gag. 

But fuck, he won’t last that long. 

He holds tight and locks them together as he follows, his abs clenching in waves at it convulses out of him. His head is going fuzzy but he holds his breath this time to stay with it, remember where they are. Doesn’t need to breathe. He lets Keith’s hair go and snaps his hand down over his shoulder, pulling for leverage to ride out the last few strokes. There’s such a wet mess between them, the lube and cum leaking out, and Keith drops down on his forearm, ass in the air as he whimpers through it. 

They don’t speak for a few minutes after Shiro pulls out and Keith rolls onto his back. Shiro peels his clothes all the way off, too hot, and squashes into the couch next to him, lays his head on Keith’s chest. Keith rubs lazily at his full shoulder with one hand, pets the sweaty hair back from Shiro’s face with the other.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” he asks. 

Shiro laughs a little, embarrassed, and turns closer into Keith’s skin like he can hide. “You’re a fast learner,” Keith says. He pinches Shiro’s cheek.

“Stop,” he says back, but he’s laughing.

He isn’t trying to catch his breath like before, but his heart is pounding. Keith’s sounds steady and he nuzzles against his pec, comforted by its cadence. He wonders if he can hear Keith’s real heart, from the real world, if he focuses hard enough.

“Did you call me your boyfriend?” Keith says after a while, and it makes Shiro’s face go red. 

“Uh…”

He tilts Shiro’s chin upwards to kiss him and stares for an uncomfortable moment. Uncomfortable for Shiro, anyway. He thinks Keith looks exceptionally collected. 

“It’s okay. I’ll be your boyfriend.”

“Oh.”

“Do you want me to be your boyfriend?”

He feels like his heart is too big for his body. “Yeah. I, um… yeah.”

“Sure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ I changed my mind and decided to make this 10 chapters, don't mind me. TOO MUCH DICK TO BE CONTAINED IN ONE CHAPTER. Anyway I originally outlined this to be a THREE CHAPTER QUICKIE so what the fuck else is new.
> 
> Also I proofread this while I was drunk so don't judge me lmfao 
> 
> Speaking of being drunk, thanks to everyone who gave me well wishes for my new job! It's on a ship. ENDLESS SHIPPING JOKES. I got drunk at a crew party, was v silly, 10/10.

Their skin feels stuck together when Keith finally stirs and sits up, shakes out his hair. He stares at Shiro for a moment, unreadable, before giving him a half smile and getting up, walking towards the hallway.

“I’m gonna take a shower,” he says, without even turning to look.

Shiro watches from the couch, seeing Keith’s full body in the light, noticing his collection of scars. They’re redder than Shiro’s, newer, and guilt kicks inside that he doesn’t know what all of them are from. They need to catch up. He touches one of his own, unconsciously, and wonders if he should ask sometime.

Keith turns around and clears his throat from the hallway. He raises an eyebrow. “Are you coming?”

The heat flares in Shiro’s face and he sits up. “Oh, sorry, I’m. Sure. I thought you meant alone.”

“I swear, you’re the dumbest smart person.” He comes back and takes Shiro’s hand, tugs him until he stands. “You know how long I’ve been stuck in this fucking place all by myself? Surrounded by your stuff?”

“Uh…”

“I don’t want to be alone.”

Well.

He lets Keith pull him closer for a kiss. Whenever he used to entertain the idea that they’d get here, he’d always picture Keith being so much more demure. He can’t remember if it had been that way the first time, and he wants to feel slighted, robbed, but he puts his hands on Keith’s hips and realizes it’s fine. He likes Keith like this. There’s nothing self conscious about him, in the way he moves, the greedy way he kisses. He’s powerful and Shiro likes it.

He tells himself he should feel jealous, but his dick is getting hard again and he doesn’t. 

“Come on,” Keith says as he comes up for air. Shiro squeezes his ass for good measure, until Keith is laughing and batting him away, then continuing to the bathroom. The water is perfect immediately, no need to wait, and Keith is pressing Shiro to the cool tiles, sucking the space over his pulse. He lets his head fall back against the wall, lets his eyes close, takes a minute to just feel it. He feels Keith reach for the body wash, hears the click of the cap, and there’s such a palpable rush of memory at the scent that comes out. He can’t believe Keith cared that much, remembered it. He hasn’t used this soap since before Kerberos and Keith has it exactly right. 

“I miss this,” Shiro mumbles, not realizing he’s saying it out loud. Keith stops and pulls back to look at him, blinks his eyes a few times against the water. “Is that weird?”

Keith begins to rub soap into Shiro’s chest, down over his abs so that it’s bubbling between his fingers, and pecks Shiro on the mouth.

“Yeah. It’s weird,” he says, but he’s smiling. The whole situation is weird, really. At least Keith isn’t denying it. He looks away and continues to lather soap over Shiro’s body, almost in reverence. For a while Shiro just watches, fascinated, but finally begins to return the favor. Their hands are gentle on each other’s bodies, and Shiro traces Keith’s scars with his fingertips, doing his best to memorize the shape of each. 

It throbs in his chest trying to imagine them new, as bleeding wounds. It’s some weird balancing act between hating the thought of Keith in pain and the bare-faced admiration of his strength. His fingers move in circles over Keith’s back and he presses in to remind himself of the dense muscle. He’s so strong.

“What’s wrong?” Keith asks. He leans in and rests his head on Shiro’s chest so that they don’t have to see each other’s faces. 

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“I can feel it, Shiro. Through Black. You’re upset about something.”

His hand lingers on a raised mark on Keith’s hip, something like claw marks, maybe. Shiro has some like that, too. There’s no way of knowing if it was a Blade mission or something he encountered in the abyss. 

“I just feel like I missed a lot, that’s all.”

There’s a long pause where Keith doesn’t speak, and Shiro almost says something else to fill the silence, but he finally nuzzles closer into Shiro’s chest, his lips brushing Shiro’s skin so that the words come out muffled. “You can ask me about them, you know.”

His stomach coils at the invitation; not because he doesn’t appreciate it, but because the idea of it makes his own wounds flash through his mind. He hears the faint echo of the clone explaining some of them and he shudders in the heat, not sure he can return the favor. He’s not sure he can say it out loud again if Keith ever asks. 

He presses his palm flat against the claw slashes, and it seems like he should start there. He’s ready to pick that one at random as the prototype, ready to do it, but something else all together tumbles out of his mouth without his control.

“Did I do that to your face?”

Keith goes stiff in his arms and Shiro can tell he’s not breathing. His hands squeeze at Shiro’s ribs for a moment before one of them lets go so that he can touch his fingertips to the scar on his cheek. Shiro watches the way he presses into it, the way he strokes up and down like he’s done it a million times, like a ritual. It’s an echo of something Shiro has done, himself. 

He wants to apologize for blurting it out but his chest is seized with cold and he can’t find the words in time.

“No,” Keith mumbles. “You didn’t. Not _you_.”

The scene around them probably doesn’t completely disappear—maybe Keith is still there, holding it together, but Shiro’s vision fades out like he can’t focus on it. Darkness and stars again and… 

It’s in there, somewhere. Deep, deep. Buried. They’ve tucked it away where he can’t find it, and maybe that’s for the best. But he remembers the way Black activated that night, knowing they had to go to Keith, and maybe he’d felt it, too. Interconnected. 

Keith is still curled against him in the shower and hasn’t said anything when Shiro comes to. He hopes Keith didn’t notice he left for a minute. Even the part of him where the clone lives is aching, like it doesn’t want to remember, like he’s still in Shiro somewhere. Ashamed. 

He wonders if that’s something Keith wants to know, if it’s worth it to apologize or if it’s too disingenuous at this point. Maybe it goes without saying and maybe spelling it out will only come off like condescension. Still, he runs his hands up and down Keith’s body, softly massages his shoulders, hopes he’ll understand. 

“So you don’t remember?”

It’s a rhetorical question, he realizes. It’s also Keith being uncharacteristically indirect, and he thinks it’s out of kindness, which is comforting. He leans in to kiss the top of Keith’s wet hair, breathes there in the steam for a moment. 

He wants to ask, really. And he wonders how hard he would have to focus to clear out the cobwebs in that part of his head until he can remember on his own. It’s the right thing to do, it’s something he should know as Keith’s friend and former leader and colleague and… _boyfriend_ … but his faith in himself is already so shallow and it might be a killing blow. 

Keith presses his hands against Shiro’s chest until they’re separated, so that he can look up and look him in the face. And fuck, the scar. Shiro thinks the guilt hurts extra because he knows the feeling, wearing it right there where you can’t ever hide it. Suspecting his own involvement was one thing, and having it confirmed…

“It’s okay if you don’t want to know,” Keith says. His expression is even and sober, patient. Why is such a simple, compassionate statement such a gut punch? God, Shiro feels like a fucking mess. He’s trying to figure out what to say when Keith continues. “Y’know cause like, sometimes you don’t turn off the military commander bullshit. It’s okay to not want to know.”

Fuck. 

“What do you mean?”

There’s a soft, sad smile on Keith’s face. Apologetic. It turns Shiro’s insides out, throbs in the bottom of his head for a moment. It’s that thing again, this feeling of being exposed, this realization of how well Keith got to know the clone, that Keith can read him so deeply it feels unfair. 

“It’s like you force yourself to go through this shit because you think you should.”

Shiro frowns, not sure what to say, almost sulking because he knows Keith is right. It feels like being caught in a lie.

“But look, Shiro,” Keith pushes away again and the hot water hits the back of Shiro’s neck, blooms warmth through his whole body. “This isn’t about Voltron or dumb Garrison shit, okay? You aren’t my leader. I’m not your job.”

He has a point and Shiro thinks part of him understands it, but the instinct is still squirming inside. He remembers Keith’s doctor saying _What you went through was a trauma_ and all of it seems so overpowering.

“Okay, but—“

Keith shakes his head and leans back in to kiss him. It muffles the rest of what Shiro wanted to say. Keith holds him around the waist with one hand and reaches behind him with the other to grab the shampoo. He comes up for air and bites at Shiro’s bottom lip. “Please stop talking.”

God, is this what they were like before? Not that Shiro is going to complain, but he wonders if using sex as a distraction is normal for them or if Keith is just pent up. He almost wants to resist, like they’re about to break through to something important, and he wants to stay with it, but there’s tenderness between them and he thinks they don’t need words.

Their bodies communicate in a way that eclipses him. It could be the remnants of the clone that are burned into him, it could be Black pulling the strings. It could be the void, he can’t be sure. But he’s kissing Keith’s temple to keep from speaking, then his cheek, the scar. Keith is still toying with the shampoo bottle and Shiro can smell it as he’s squeezing it into his hands. It gives him such a rush, reminds him of another life. 

Keith’s hands raise to run through Shiro’s hair, massaging into his scalp so that the bubbles lather and drip down over his wrists. He isn’t putting on pressure, but Shiro sinks beneath him, ducks his head to suck water collecting in Keith’s clavicle, kisses the scar on his shoulder. He’s running his hands up and down Keith’s ribs as he lowers down until his knees hit the cool tile. Keith’s hands stay gentle as Shiro looks up at him, blinking against the water as he kisses Keith’s hipbone. He shouldn’t read so much into having someone shampoo his hair, but he thinks there’s something soft in Keith’s movements, something calm, telling him that they’re okay. 

Shiro hopes his mouth will spell out an apology. He presses his lips to Keith’s head, stays there for a moment just to feel. He hesitates before taking Keith in his new hand, not confident that he’s had enough practice on himself, but he’s careful. He likes the way Keith jolts when he feels it, the way he tugs at Shiro’s hair for a second. It flashes sensation as he takes Keith into his mouth. 

He’s not sure he really knows what he’s apologizing for, anyway. Words can’t say it. His head spins with it as he tries to land on something, and he sucks gently at first, letting Keith get fully hard in his mouth. It aches between his legs; he’s always enjoyed this part. It’s something intimate, feeling a lover soft like this, being able to coax him into it. He’d touch himself to it, and feels the blood in his body rushing to his cock, but his entire focus is on Keith right now.

Sorry for fucking up your face. Sorry I came out here to help and you’re still the one saving me. Sorry we didn’t talk before I died. Sorry about Kerberos. 

“Fuck, Shiro,” Keith mumbles. He continues to move his hands along Shiro’s scalp and the shampoo is still lathering, bubbles dripping down the back of his neck. It feels good enough that he moans around Keith’s dick. It creates a feedback loop; Keith’s breath hitches and he tugs at Shiro’s hair by reflex and Shiro’s nerves continue to sing. 

He can feel the way Keith’s movements stutter as the sensation rolls on in waves. He’s still washing Shiro’s hair, lovingly so, massaging into his scalp and rolling wet strands between his fingertips. Diligent until Shiro sucks harder, sinks deeper, and he’ll hiss and pull. He keeps petting Shiro’s head like an apology afterwards. 

The taste of Keith leaking into his mouth brings back memories, peels up at the corners. He zones in on it like trying to pick around a scab. _I would beg,_ Keith said. It jolts heat through Shiro’s stomach and he wants to know, the memory feels so close, but—

“Close your eyes,” Keith says, and he’s pulling Shiro’s head back with one hand, by the hair, angling him up so that the water hits him in the face. He reaches up and takes the shower nozzle down to hold it at Shiro’s hairline, and Shiro moans again at the way the warmth feels that close, jetting against him to rinse the shampoo. He lets go of Keith’s cock, holds him by the hips and goes deep, lost somewhere in his own thoughts. It’s a mess of sensation, not just how horny this makes him, but the gentleness of it, too. How good it feels that Keith is washing his hair, stroking softly to guide the shampoo away, how good the steam feels.

Fuck, it’s love. _This is love_.

“Is this turning you on?” Keith asks. Shiro opens his eyes and blinks through the water, and Keith gives a sharp pull to his hair. “I didn’t tell you to open your eyes yet.”

He’d say sorry but his mouth is full. He shuts them again and goes deep enough that he almost gags, shoulders shuddering as Keith sprays the water back and forth across his hair. 

“Touch yourself for me,” his voice is soft but confident. He holds the back of Shiro’s head and thrusts a few times, and it’s deep enough that Shiro is coughing around him but he’s not being rough. Not too fast. 

He thinks he’s figured it out this time, and his new hand falls into position easily. There are noises coming from his throat, vibrating around Keith’s dick. He rocks his hips forward into his own hand, matching the way Keith rocks into his mouth.

“You told me how it was before,” Keith says, voice quiet. “Learning how to jerk off after you lost your arm. Are you figuring it out okay this time? Ulaz isn’t here to help.”

_Fuck_. 

He clamps around himself to stave the orgasm off and squeezes his eyes tighter. 

“Sorry, not you. You didn’t tell me. He did.”

Keith’s voice is cool and steady but the taste in Shiro’s mouth is such a tell.

“Are you close?” 

Shiro can’t nod his head, can’t speak, just whimpers in response. He begins to stroke himself again, slowly, carefully, hanging on. 

“I thought so,” Shiro can hear Keith hanging the nozzle back up and feels Keith’s hand on his cheek, calloused fingers petting the wet skin. His other hand slides down to hook onto the back of Shiro’s neck and he holds tight, anchors there. “Don’t come yet. Not before me, babe.”

His hand pauses as the command washes over and he sucks hard, pulling out all the tricks he knows so that Keith can finish. Hopefully soon, because he doesn’t want to wait, either. 

“I didn’t believe you before,” Keith says. His voice goes rough, caught in the back of his throat as he holds Shiro’s head in place and pushes deep, not thrusting for a moment, waiting until Shiro chokes before he eases up. “About how you’re the same as him. But I’m starting to see it. You’re both such freaks.”

His mind flashes on the perfect pink shape of a handprint on Keith’s ass cheek, the sound of the crack against his skin, the way he would cry out and the way the tears would make his eyes go bright. The arousal is still mirrored by the rush of anxiety. The memories are knotted together with others, with the smell of blood, the roar of the audience, the phantom pain in his right arm every time he used it as a weapon.

And yet…

Keith slaps his face and his eyes open by reflex, long enough to see a scar across Keith’s hip and enough that he can look up and meet Keith’s eyes. Hooded and stormy and if Shiro stares too long he’ll see the overpowering _depth_ , but he remembers himself and shuts them again in obedience. 

“Good boy,” Keith says. The words shoot right to Shiro’s dick. 

_I should spank him_ , he thinks. _I should bend him over my lap and spank him until he cries. Make him apologize for talking so much shit_.

His cock does a confused spasm in his hand at the thought, enjoying the idea quite a bit despite some rational side trying to cling to the trauma. But Keith slaps him again and the pain is warm and nice, red and purple in his mind, blending so nicely into the lust. And he thinks he’s getting closer to figuring it out.

“I’m gonna come,” Keith says, as a warning, and Shiro chases him down for it, tonguing at him the best way he knows how. “Open your eyes.”

He tastes the beginning of it and sees the rest; sees the flushed red tip of Keith’s dick as he pulls out, only half the cum in Shiro’s mouth as the rest of it spurts across his face. He blinks in surprise, leans back on his heels and squints against the shower water as Keith holds him by his hair and takes himself in his own hand to squeeze through the last of it. It gets Shiro’s cheek, splashes the scar on the bridge of his nose, catches on his eyebrow. Keith pants above him and he’s breathing some string of curses, telling Shiro how good he is, how pretty he looks, and it sends Shiro over the edge. He curls in on himself as he comes, leaning his face into Keith’s thigh as it sprays out over his own belly. 

He stays on his knees for a moment to ride through it, waits for his ears to stop ringing before he wobbles to his feet. Keith is smiling, amused and a little smug, and they don’t say anything else as they rinse each other off. He supposes nothing needs to be said at this point. 

It’s comfortable silence like that as they dry off, as they get dressed. Even with the clone’s memories hanging in the periphery, this feels new. Nothing was ever this comfortable in space, this safe. 

“Can we go outside?” Shiro asks, the thought coming to him abruptly. Like he needs the fresh air or something, like it even matters. Maybe the newness of being able to spend time outside. But Keith nods and pulls on a hoodie, and his shoes are by the door like they always were at Shiro’s, and he’s reaching for Shiro’s hand to pull him along once they leave. 

It’s the same creaky porch outside, the same rusted gate, and it warps Shiro’s mind a little to pass through these dreamscapes. But he knows they’re dreamscapes—he knows it. The transition is startling but not frightening. It feels nice, actually, this melding of their two worlds. 

And that it isn’t real affords them a safety they wouldn’t have in real life. Keith walks them away from the house a ways, where it’s completely dark, and Shiro knows they don’t have to worry about snakes or coyotes or jagged brambles. The stars are so bright out here, not just from the desert, he knows. It’s an illusion, it’s the astral plane. As they lay down on the ground and stare up he wonders if it’s based on a real place, if there are real constellations. It could be an overlay of all the places they’ve seen and dreamed about or it could be Black, showing them somewhere that really exists. 

They lay down in opposite directions, only their heads next to each other. Keith stretches and reaches up to hold Shiro’s hand. From here, all he can see is the sky, but it isn’t scary like when there was nothing. He can feel the ground beneath them, still warm from the sun, feel Keith’s hand. It’s easier with someone else.

“So…” Shiro watches the sky and it’s easier to talk without having to look at Keith’s face. He fidgets their hands together, each of them moving their fingers against each other in no real pattern. “Can I ask how it started? With you two?” 

Keith takes his time before answering, and Shiro can feel the way his head tilts to one side like he’s contemplating at the stars. “I don’t really know. I think we both liked each other and… at first I couldn’t tell if it was just because we were out there stuck together in the castle, around each other all the time. Maybe it was bound to happen.” 

“Yeah…” 

There’s a palpable crackle in the air, warm on Shiro’s skin; Keith’s anxiety permeating their space for a moment, his insecurity. His hand almost pulls away from Shiro’s and the ache of his fear throbs in Shiro’s chest.

“Does it matter if we still got here?” Shiro asks. He curls his fingers into Keith’s to keep him in place and the feeling recedes. Keith doesn’t answer but the air around them goes calmer. “How long did you like me?”

Keith snorts and Shiro can feel him shaking his head, even though they’re both still looking up at the sky. “Come on, Shiro. Don’t make me answer that.”

“Sorry,” he chuckles under his breath. He wants it to be funny, honestly. Maybe it should be cute or something. But it feels hollow inside, another thing he missed. He likes the easy energy between them but he can’t turn off the questions in his head. 

“No, I’m sorry too,” Keith mumbles after a pause. “It’s just hard to talk about.”

“It’s okay.”

Hard to talk about, he says, but he continues. “Like, I told… _him_ about it. We talked about it a few times but he never pushed me. He was cool never bringing it up again.”

Shiro would be cool never bringing it up again, too, if that’s what Keith wanted. He gets the sentiment. But he thinks if he says so it’ll sound cheap, like he’s pandering. He opts to say quiet while Keith goes on.

“It’s just weird cause. I don’t know. I know you thought I was a little kid, before everything. And you were like a brother to me, or something.”

“Things change.”

“Yeah.”

“It just…” he sighs. The sky around the quavers, then expands. Gets darker, if that’s possible. “It took me a long time to stop worrying about that, and when everything happened and you showed up again, I don’t know. I felt like it started over.”

“Keith…”

“I mean, I know you said it was there before everything. I believe you. It’s just. Been a weird few days. Or… however long it’s been. I don’t know.”

Shiro gets it, he thinks. 

There’s a heavy silence for a moment before Keith clears his throat and his hand twitches in Shiro’s. “Is it… important to you to know about us?”

Yes. 

His cheeks feel warm.

“Not if you don’t want to tell me.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

It’s stupid to feel jealous of himself.

“I’m not trying to pry,” he says. He shuts his eyes and thinks he remembers something about Keith, tied up in bed, the rope pressing white marks into his skin. He thinks maybe they came all over Keith’s face and fucked him until he was crying. “I guess I just feel a little lost here.”

It’s silent again and Shiro breaks it with a soft laugh under his breath.

“This is hard.”

It makes Keith laugh, too, and Shiro can feel the set of his shoulders relax. 

“You just…” Shiro opens his eyes and studies the sky around them. “I don’t know how to explain it. I feel like I’m…”

“… Missing parts?” Keith finishes for him. It pulls tight in Shiro’s throat.

“Yeah,” he chews on the corner of his lip. The sky seems so massive out here, maybe because it isn’t real. It’s the void. It’s nothing. “That’s exactly it. Missing parts.”

“He felt like that, too.” Keith’s voice is quiet and he lets go of Shiro’s hand. It hurts for a moment until he realizes that Keith is rolling onto his side so that they can face each other. “He used to say he was missing parts.”

Keith gives him a sad smile. 

There’s a moment where his eyes are burning, and it ends as soon as he realizes it’s happening. He blinks and turns away from Keith, looks up at the sky again to deflect. 

“It’s just hard because sometimes…” Shiro pauses, lets the words roll around in his mouth for a moment, not sure how to say it. His heart thumps in his chest. 

“What?”

“Sometimes… I feel things. About you, or. You know, whatever. And I can’t tell if it’s him or me. And…” he trails off, scrubs a hand over his face. “I know I sound fucking crazy.”

“Well, what happened to you was fucking crazy, so…”

It makes Shiro laugh. Some of the tension leaves his shoulders. 

“There’s just… a lot. That I can’t remember.”

Keith’s voice is quiet from beside him a moment later, thoughtful and sincere and Shiro’s chest aches. “Can’t we make new memories?”

“Yeah,” he’s frowning at first, thinking hard about it. Reasoning comes out slowly, the words have to settle in for a moment. But it warms him on the inside, like a sunrise. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

“I’ll tell you, though,” Keith says. He rolls away again, onto his back, to watch the sky. “If you actually want me to.”

“You think I don’t actually want to know?”

“I think… it’s okay if you don’t know. You aren’t competing with him,” he hears the rough clatter of pebbles and knows that Keith is digging his fingers into the ground, fidgeting. 

He wants to argue, to tell Keith it’s not that at all. Even his muscles go tense, ready to sit up and look down at him to make his point. But… he’s right, isn’t he? It feels hollow inside, like his body could collapse on itself. _Why is it so important?_

Keith’s voice from before echoes softly in his head. _No, babe. He’s not here_. Simple and gentle, unthreatened. Not competing with him anymore. They’re both gone, he supposes. 

“It’s not like…” Keith hesitates and he shifts, Shiro hears the dry sound of dirt beneath them. “It’s not like, the other stuff. That you can’t remember.”

The other stuff. 

“Y’know cause, whatever happened with him, it wasn’t… you.”

“Right,” Shiro closes his eyes. “You’re right.”

“So… why is it important?”

He wonders if being honest and saying _Insecure bullshit_ is an option. As they lay there and he thinks on it too long, he figures Keith probably knows that’s the reason, anyway. Still, he stays with it, digs deeper for the answer that Keith deserves.

It takes a while and eventually he sits up, shakes off the dust from the back of his shirt, rolls his shoulders a few times and stares at his hands in his lap. His shoulder lights them soft blue. 

“It’s just…” fuck. He takes a breath and tries again. “I don’t think that… he was…”

Keith tilts his head back to look up at him, still sprawled across the ground. He reaches up to touch and all he can get to is Shiro’s sleeve, but Shiro shifts to give him more access. They stay like that, though, Keith tugging the hem of Shiro’s sleeve, patient. Waiting.

“I guess I keep thinking he was missing parts, but, maybe they were parts that are worth missing. Maybe it was a better version of me.”

“Shiro…”

“I want to be like that. I don’t like… carrying everything the way I do.”

Keith sits up and turns to face him, crawls forward on his knees, but doesn’t say anything.

“Sex used to be this… I don’t know. Mental exercise for me. You know, before. When I was sick and everything.”

Keith’s face doesn’t change. He isn’t surprised, and Shiro hears it ringing faintly, deep in his head. His own voice, a memory. The clone saying these same words. _Sometimes I felt like it was the only time I had control. I thought I wasn’t gonna see thirty._

“He… told you this, didn’t he?”

“Yeah…” Keith’s head tilts to the side. “You can say it again though, if you want to. If it helps.”

His mind expands around the idea and lands on another angle. Maybe it’s new to Keith, maybe it wasn’t relevant before. He picks at a dry patch of grass next to his leg. 

“They made me talk to a therapist,” he says softly. “When I first got diagnosed? The hospital had people that specialized in it. Y’know like, being told you’re gonna die. Like palliative care.”

Keith doesn’t respond and Shiro looks away from him. He’s not sure if Keith has heard this one and doesn’t let it stop him.

“And y'know, I was a kid. So it was always about other stuff, too. I don’t think I understood what it meant at the time so therapy was about whatever, and if the dying stuff came up we’d deal with it.”

He steals a glance at Keith to make sure he’s listening, as dumb as it is. Of course he’s listening. 

“Anyway. My therapist always told me to revisit things that frightened me? Cause it would teach me that it wasn’t always bad. And I guess that kind of stuck with me.”

Keith actually chuckles at that one, and when it sinks in, Shiro does, too. 

“So I guess the reason it matters is because…” he prods at a memory and can feel the hard line of Keith’s throat under his hand, crushing him gently as they both moan each other’s names. “If I could… remember… that it wasn’t always bad, maybe I could be okay with it.”

It’s sort of a longhand way to have said _Insecure bullshit_ but he hopes it at least offers an explanation. 

“I get it, I think,” Keith says. 

“I keep feeling jealous,” Shiro admits. “And I’m realizing it’s not just because he got to have you, but… I’m jealous that he was so uninhibited about it. And you said we’re not competing but I just… it feels like he was a better version of me.”

Keith snorts. “He tried to kill me.”

In another context, Shiro would flush with shame at that, but he’s onto something here. It ignites his point. “But you’re not afraid of me. You’d still… let me hurt you.”

It’s dark out but he sees the heaviness that sets into Keith’s eyes.

He reaches to touch, human hand sets in place on Keith’s hip. He scoots a little bit closer through the dirt. 

“Tell me,” he says. He leans close enough to feel Keith’s body heat, warm breath against his mouth. “Tell me why you like it.”

Keith frowns, not unhappily, more like he’s thinking. Instead of speaking, he comes in closer, until their foreheads are pressed together. The contact shocks through him and he feels it all over, over his skin and inside, like it’s touching his brain. They feel like one person for a moment, and he feels Black in them both, knitting them together.

The visions are so clear this time, the three of them working in tandem.

He remembers being in the castle, the two of them on the couch together. No one else was around, maybe it was late at night. The other paladins didn’t have problems sleeping like they did. Keith had his legs draped over the clone’s lap. 

“You should tie me up,” Keith said, and it came out so naturally, so nonchalant, like commenting on the weather. The clone had been petting up and down Keith’s thigh with his human hand, holding up a tablet with the other. The words made him stop moving, and his eyes focused on his screen for a moment. He put it down slowly. 

Shiro knows, can feel it, that it’s a new territory for them. They aren’t that serious yet. He remembers the way the clone swallowed, hard, as he considered it. The memory is vivid, detailed, rife with context. They’ve fucked around a little, called each other names. Talked dirty. But this is… 

It's the first time doing something like this. 

The clone hesitated, and Shiro remembers how the anxiety had pulsed over. It was something telling him it was a bad idea, something filling him with darkness, but he couldn’t place _why_. Keith’s eyebrow raised like it was a challenge, and it crushed his doubts.

In the present, Keith reaches up to hold the sides of Shiro’s head. It feels like electricity, like he’s holding all the thoughts inside. Cradling them, protective. 

“I’ve always liked you, Shiro,” he says quietly. “I think you’re the reason I knew I was gay.”

_Fuck_.

“Is that stupid?”

“No,” he’s too quick to answer. God, no. Fuck.

The memory flashes forward, and Shiro remembers pacing in the hallway outside his room, shaking the nervous energy out of his hands and rolling his shoulders. He could still feel the texture of the rope and knew Keith was waiting on the other side of the door. There was that same biting anxiety inside, hovering. A dull alarm rolling through his mind, telling him to be uncomfortable. He rubbed at his temples to clear it away. 

And the sight of Keith there, waiting for him, when he came back inside.

_It’s about fucking time,_ he’d practically hissed at the clone’s return.

Shiro tenses in the void, feels cold sweat on his scalp. 

“Were…” he takes a breath for the courage to ask, “…you a virgin?”

His eyes are closed but he knows that Keith is smiling. Maybe Black is telling him so. Keith’s thumbs run in a circle against Shiro’s skull and the comfort is dizzying. “No.”

He laughs a little bit under his breath like it’s a joke, and shakes his head before repeating himself.

“No. But I’ve never submitted to someone the way I do to you.”

Oh.

He remembers the pitch of Keith voice, _whining_. “I want you to touch me,” he’d complained, and his face was burning red in shame. The clone’s blood had rushed to his cock. 

“Oh? I thought you wanted to be powerless.”

The anxiety had risen again, in his throat, but the unbridled lust in Keith’s eyes smoothed out the edges. It was _need_. It was a green light. Permission. 

“ _Shiro,”_ he begged. 

Keith’s voice cuts through the reverie and he shifts, presses forward so that their knees come together. 

“I’ve always…” his mouth brushes against Shiro’s for a moment, close enough that Shiro feels the way he bites at his own lip, “…known… something was different about me, I think.”

Shiro almost wants to ask which difference he’s referring to; he’s an extraordinary person all around, but he stays quiet and lets him continue.

“Maybe because I’m Galra or something,” he admits. “But I used to feel so… _angry_. All the time.”

Shiro reaches up to mirror him, holds him around the head. His hair is soft between his fingers, silky and longer than it’s ever been. 

“And I don’t… _want_ to be angry. I don’t want to be like this. I didn’t like myself like that,” his voice quavers for a moment as he says it, but he brushes over, recovers, continues. “But… you’re the only person who could get through it. I didn’t know how to be anyone else until I met you.”

His breath is warm when he chuffs out a short, sarcastic laugh. “I still don’t know how to be anyone else. But…”

Shiro runs his thumbs along Keith’s cheekbones. 

“It felt good. To have someone put me in my place. Someone I trusted.”

It tingles in Shiro’s head, his hands, his gut. He remembers Keith, tied up and trying to rut against him, dragging his cock against the clone’s abs for any type of contact. The clone was laughing at him. _You’re so slutty right now. Look at you_ , he was teasing. 

“When we came out here, to Voltron, I was so attracted to how… destructive you could be…”

There’s a knee-jerk instinct to be upset by this, but he holds it together to hear what else Keith has to say about it.

“You know like, watching you pilot Black, how you took control the way you did. The way you’d take out Galra cruisers. God, it just…” there’s an edge to his voice, and even though Shiro has only heard it on his own merits a couple times now, he feels it connects to the clone’s memories. Something desperate. 

Guilt is bubbling up, hot and sharp the way it always is when he taps into that part of himself. _Destructive._ But Keith speaks softly against him, close enough that their lips brush together, and he remembers the way a slap on the ass could make Keith absolutely bloom. 

“It made me feel safe,” he says. His hands move on Shiro’s head, like he can coax the negativity away, repurpose it. 

“I want it…” Shiro breathes. “I just, I don’t know…”

“Shiro…” Keith shifts forward again, and there’s nowhere else to go except to clamber into Shiro’s lap. Shiro opens his eyes, but Keith’s are still closed as he arranges his limbs, awkward and warm and pressing in as much as he can. His dick is hard against Shiro’s abs. 

“Your strength doesn’t have to be destructive,” he says, and he kisses the corner of Shiro’s mouth, his cheekbone, his ear. It’s warm and damp when he speaks again. “You can’t hurt me here.”

The revelation sinks hard in his stomach. It’s something he _knows_.

“I can’t hurt you here,” he repeats. He rocks his hips up against Keith and he turns to kiss his cheek. It’s rushed, messy, wet. 

“You can’t hurt me here.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote chapters 1-8 in about a month before S8 happened and then I was like DSHJGKLS LOL WTF WAS THAT and then I also started this job working on a ship and my life has been just so hectic and my internet situation is no bueno so I'm sorry for how long it took me to finish up the last bit but. HEY. Whatever lol.
> 
> Worth noting that I wrote the last 3k in one sitting in a manic creative frenzy while I was listening to [Lateralus by Tool](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EiR1hmpk-x4&list=PL506BCAA4266B9514) over and over and CRYING ABOUT SHIRO because tbh it's the perfect desert angst/cosmic mindfuck perfect Shiro soundtrack so. YAH WELCOME.
> 
> And anyway yeah thank you guys so much for all the comments, it really kept me going. I'm such an insecure loser lol it really validated me and kept me motivated. Due to aforementioned sketchy internet situation I haven't been able to reply to everyone but I kept rereading the comments when I needed a boost and I'll get back to you when I can sit down with wifi for a while! 
> 
> I'll shut up now lol its dick time

There are things Shiro knows. He knows them because he has to, because it’s his last shred of trust in himself. He knows his name is Takashi Shirogane. He is the Captain of the Atlas and used to be the Black Paladin. He knows he was abducted and knows he escaped somehow. 

He also knows that his obsession with _knowing_ was bred by the void. He’s twenty-eight, give or take, but there are years and years of memories packed into his head where they don’t belong. He knows that time is an illusion, that it can’t ever be truly quantified, that his own timeline means almost nothing.

And the thing he knows more certainly than anything else is that he’ll be playing this game for the rest of his life. 

Once upon a time he would ponder his own mortality, his illness. And now it’s… this. 

The void isn’t safe. It raises the hair on the back of his neck to remember. It makes him dizzy. Keith is warm and heavy in his lap, his skin is soft and damp with sweat, _he feels real_ , like they’re really here, and Shiro’s mind ripples around the idea that they’re not. Instinct tells him to pull away, to get away. To thrash and scream the way he used to when he’d figure it out. His heartbeat kicks up, skips in his chest, and he squeezes at Keith’s sides to stay anchored. 

But… 

He presses his forehead to Keith’s collar bone, breathes heavy. 

This is the safest they’ve ever been.

He might never truly know what’s real and what isn’t, and he might never truly know if he and Keith would’ve gotten here on their own, if things had been different. But he knows they were never safe, out in space in the castle, that the chaos and danger played a part in binding them together. 

Keith rolls his hips forward, pressing his hardon into Shiro’s abs, and there’s a constant stream of words coming from him, mumbled against Shiro’s throat. He only hears some of it and uses all his energy to focus, to stay with it.

“I want you,” Keith is saying. His voice vibrates against Shiro’s skin. “Please, Shiro.”

He runs his fingers through Keith’s hair, taking a moment to collect himself, and then makes a fist, tugs him back until they can see each other’s faces. Keith’s eyes are glassy, half-closed, his mouth open.

“Do you feel safe here?” Shiro asks. Keith shudders in his lap. They stare at each other for a moment and Keith lets out a deep breath.

“With you, yeah.” 

He rolls his hips again and bites his bottom lip. He puts his hands flat on Shiro’s chest, gropes at his pecs. 

“Stop thinking so hard,” he says, almost whining. He pinches one of Shiro’s nipples through his shirt, rolls it between his fingers until Shiro leans forward into it. His Altean hand braces against Keith’s back and pushes them together.

It’s almost becoming a ritual now, the way he probes into his head for some type of protocol, something else to reference. Like he’s asking the clone what to do, how to handle Keith when he’s like this. It’s almost there, just on the edge where he can almost reach it, the disorienting feeling of déjà vu. It tingles in his mouth. But Keith grabs the sides of his head, digs blunt nails into his scalp.

“Stop,” he says. He comes in to kiss, heavy and messy, all tongue and heat. “Don’t worry about him.”

Shiro almost protests, almost denies it, but Keith kisses him again and he can’t get the words out. 

“Be you, Shiro,” he says, almost out of breath. “I want _you_.”

“I don’t—“

“Do what _you_ want to do.”

The words have to settle in for a moment. They wash over, sink into place. And Shiro feels it click in his chest. Something unlocks. 

“Can you come like this?” he asks, and raises an eyebrow. He nods down to the way Keith is rutting up against his abs. Keith whines and goes harder.

“I don’t know.”

“You better,” Shiro says against his ear. He kisses Keith’s temple. “Do it now, cause I’m not gonna let you again for a while.”

It makes Keith stop for a moment, collect himself. It’s the perfect reaction and Shiro has to suppress a groan to stay in control. Keith wraps his arms around Shiro’s shoulders, hooks his fingers into the metal appliance. _Do what_ you _want to do_ , Keith had said, and he still feels so distracted. But Keith is hanging onto him, rolling his hips over and over, whimpering near Shiro’s ear. He close, Shiro can hear it, and Shiro feels close to finding the headspace he needs. He squeezes Keith’s ass, hard enough to elicit a flinch and a pathetic little noise from pain, and he tries to remember how to let go.

The way Keith shakes is enough to draw him in.

“God, Shiro…” he breathes heavy and damp on Shiro’s neck, rising a little higher on his knees for a better angle. Shiro has to sit up straighter, adjust his posture to stay upright under the force of Keith’s body. The pressure is such a turn on; it feeds a cycle as they each tap into their own strength, pushing against each other. 

Keith doesn’t need to say it this time, or at least, Shiro doesn’t want him to think he has to. Doesn’t need to beg for it like before. The time they’ve spent together here is swirling in his head, overwhelming, echoing back and forth. _You can call me names_ , and _I’ve always liked you, Shiro_ , and _Of course I love you._

_I think you’re the reason I knew I was gay._

He squeezes Keith’s ass again, effortless with the Altean hand, and he actually feels the jolt of pain in the air between them, sharp enough that it zaps through their connection with Black. Pain, but it’s nice. He can feel Keith’s need along with it, can tell he likes it. _I need it._

“That’s it, baby,” he says, and squeezes harder. Keith takes a shaky gasp next to Shiro’s ear, pulls tighter against him. The zipper of his pants must be grinding into him, but it doesn’t make him slow down. “You’re gonna come just like this? Right in your pants like a teenager.”

“Shiro…”

“I’m gonna fuck you when we go inside,” he whispers. “I’m gonna fuck you the way I wanna fuck you.”

“ _Yes_. Fuck, Shiro. Please.”

“You’re gonna beg me to stop.”

If he wasn’t focusing on staying upright, offsetting the force and weight of Keith’s body, they’d have been knocked down already. He plants his human hand on the ground behind him for leverage as Keith ruts harder. 

“You want that, baby? Want me to use you until you can’t take it anymore?”

“God, fuck. Yes, Shiro.”

“Come,” he says. He reaches to tuck Keith’s hair behind his ear, lifts him with a finger on the chin to watch his face. “Come now, while I’ll still let you.”

Keith’s eyes flutter, almost close, but focus on Shiro’s. His mouth is hanging open, brow creased as he convulses. He’s clinging to Shiro, nails digging into his back through his clothes, the pain dull and far away. Shiro has to breathe deep to keep his control in check; fuck. He’s ready to throw Keith onto his back and just fuck him right here in the dirt, but no no no. Wait. He shakes as Keith does, waits for it to smooth out. 

“Go inside,” he says when it’s over. Keith is weak, recovering, and his legs wobble as he gets up. “Go in and wait for me. Don’t touch yourself.”

He looks drunk and lost but nods his head. 

“Do you understand?” 

“Yeah,” he nods, and it takes a moment before he swallows and tries again, his reaction delayed. “Yes, sir.”

“Good,” he gestures into the dark, towards the house. “Good boy. Now go.”

He waits for Keith to fade into the darkness before he stands. Dusts himself off. His body is relaxing even as the arousal still hums, low and constant, in wait. But he needs a minute. And making Keith wait is part of the game.

The house glows softly as he approaches, the only object in sight. There’s a quick moment where he imagines they could stay, and he has to stop and shake it out. It’s dangerous, a trap. He rubs his eyes and reminds himself they don’t belong here.

It’s quiet when he finally comes inside. Keith’s shoes are by the door and it’s the only clue that someone else is here. The obedience is pleasing, that Keith is out of sight, waiting. He can probably hear the door opening and closing, can hear Shiro moving around the living room. But Shiro’s going to make him wait.

He washes his hands in the kitchen sink, splashes his face, drinks a glass of water. Hangs his jacket up. 

Keith is quiet, and Shiro wonders what he’s doing. He drops down to the living room floor to do a few pushups, to feel the blood rush to his skin. 

It’s such an ingrained habit, he realizes, and he tests the balance of his right arm, the force of the empty space against his shoulder. Reminds him of the castle, and captivity, even his other missions when he was still whole. It burns pleasantly and lets him clear his head.

Keith is right, that they should make new memories. Shiro closes his eyes, not sure where the line is. Keith deserves the attention, he deserves for Shiro to learn him on his own. Figure out what he likes, how to ruin him. But the clone is woven into him, unavoidable. 

_I love you, you know that, right?_ he remembers the clone saying. He said it nonchalantly, unbothered, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, but Shiro knows it’s the first time he’d said it out loud. Keith was crying out into his pillow, his ass covered in belt-shaped bruises. The clone thrust into him, hard, so that his body crashed forward and his head hit the wall. His voice was calm as Keith fell apart, sobbed. He pet over one the welts and squeezed it between the fingers of his right hand. _Go ahead. You can say it back._

He sits up on his knees and covers his face. _Don’t worry about him_. 

The lights flicker and he hears the gentle tapping of rain at the windows. It pulls him out of his reverie and he rises, crosses the room. It’s beading against the glass, blurring the view of the park outside, and he’s not sure which one of them is causing it. But he stares, marveling. It hasn’t rained since they’ve been back on Earth. He can’t actually remember the last time he saw rain at all.

It had rained once when Keith snuck off the grounds and showed up at their building soaked, looking too small and pathetic for Shiro to bother reprimanding. There must have been other times, other memories. Rainy days in the desert are memorable, after all. He’s sure that there must’ve been some ritual. Maybe he and Adam would make mac ’n cheese and cuddle on the couch or something. But all he remembers is Keith, that one time, dripping all over the doormat in the hallway. Adam had ordered pizza while Shiro dug around for dry clothes that might fit. They watched _Tetsuo: The Iron Man_ and agreed to sneak Keith back in the morning if he promised to ace his next astrophysics exam. 

It’s another life. Another life in more ways than one. Another place. 

Different people.

He cracks his neck and shakes out his hands, rubs over his cock through his pants. Half hard, calmed down from earlier, but still ready. The thought of Keith waiting for him in there, this whole time, makes it twitch in his hand.

And he has to stop himself, a moment later, as he’s coming through the bedroom door. Stop where he’s standing and collect himself, because Keith is undressed, kneeling next to the bed, hands in his lap. His head is down, eyes cast to the floor, patient and respectful, hair falling into his face. God, how long has he been sitting like this? 

Sitting there like a pet.

His cock throbs in his pants as he comes closer. 

“Hi, kitten,” he says, and sees the way Keith’s dick bobs, still red and spent but coming back. Keith doesn’t look up but his fingers flex against the tops of his thighs. “Look how good you waited for me.”

He undresses slowly, watching how Keith’s dick is pulsing back to life, how the color is rising in his face, the tips of his ears, in splotches across his chest. He catches Keith looking a couple times, impatient and antsy, and it only makes him want to move slower. 

“You’re a good little pet,” he says. He takes his time unbuckling his belt and threading it out of the loops on his jeans. They’re close to something here, it’s tingling beneath his skin. He reaches out with his new arm, further from his natural reach, and scratches Keith behind his ears. It makes Keith shudder, and turn his head towards Shiro’s hand, his shoulders curling inward. There’s hair rising on his arms.

Making him wait, still, as he steps out of his jeans and takes a moment to put them away in the hamper. Pets Keith’s head, combs his hair back from his face. And there’s something in the air; maybe from the rain. Thick like humidity, like asphalt before a thunderstorm. There’s pressure low in his head and he can feel Keith all around the room. 

“Shiro,” he whimpers, and Shiro looks. Keith is finally breaking down, staring at him. He’s never given Shiro puppy eyes like this, and his arousal is potent between them. It’s a warm touch at the back of his neck, squeezing. 

“Come here.”

He’s doing his best to act unaffected, but Keith is watching the way Shiro’s dick reacts as he crawls towards him on the floor. The prosthesis hovers the whole way, petting and guiding him by the back of the head, until he’s settled between Shiro’s legs, pawing at them. He scratches up and down Shiro’s thighs as he comes close, nuzzles by his groin, waits for instructions. 

“Go ahead,” he says, and Keith is close enough now that he can pet his hair back with the human hand, as well. It’s damp at the roots, warm. “Do it, I know you want to.”

And fuck, it’s unfair. The whole thing is unfair. He can clear the clone from his head the best he can, he can try to learn Keith on his own, but the damage is done. It’s a bell that can’t be unwrung—Keith knows Shiro’s body, too. Trying to pretend the clone is a separate entity is only going to make him jealous, make him feel the weight of the time lost. Keith knows all the tricks, all the ways to get to him the most, and the heat of his mouth has Shiro tugging at his hair to stay balanced. On his knees and squeezing around Shiro’s hipbones, moaning and drooling around his cock. It’s sloppy and thorough and exactly how Shiro likes it. 

One of Keith’s hands lets go and Shiro watches how he hovers over his own dick for a moment, then presses his fingertips against the carpet. His other hand settles around Shiro’s shaft, covering what doesn’t fit in his mouth. Everything feels wet, he’s humming along in a broken rhythm. Tiny sounds, small and hungry and sort of pitiful. 

“You want to touch yourself, don’t you baby?” Shiro pats his head, watching the strain as Keith almost touches again, squeezes around the inside of his thigh instead. He looks up to Shiro’s face, mouth still full of dick, and it’s the puppy eyes again. Next level, really, and Shiro can’t help thrusting forward so that Keith chokes a little bit. His eyebrows come together and Shiro sees how his fingers go loose around his own cock, how he swipes a thumb over the head. Shiro tugs at his hair. “I didn’t say you could. Don’t touch.”

There’s a look on Keith’s face that says something like _Shiro please_ ; maybe with real words it would be something dirtier. It’s probably a moment that he’d use _Sir_ , but there’s only the whining. Still, he doesn’t let go. He’s not moving, not jerking off, but he’s holding himself, unwilling to stop.

“Keith,” Shiro’s voice pitches deeper, more serious. Maybe it’s his _Captain Shirogane_ voice, if he can admit it to himself. It rumbles in his chest and he sees the way it passes over Keith, the way he shrinks and shudders, and he lets go of himself but goes deeper on Shiro’s dick like an apology. He shuts his eyes, squeezing them against the way it makes him gag. 

It’s good timing, though, a good excuse to take a break, because his body is telling him to come down Keith’s throat and he doesn’t want it to end so soon. He pulls Keith back by his hair, and there’s a wet pop as he comes off. His chin is shiny with spit and Shiro wipes it up with his thumb, guides it back into Keith’s mouth. 

“You’re sloppy,” he says. Pretending his doesn’t like it.“It’s so gross.”

He rubs his thumb against the roof of Keith’s mouth, smiling down at his reaction. Eyes half-lidded and swallowing hard, digging his nails into his leg to keep from touching again. He wiggles in place, like he’s trying to catch any friction he can, use his thighs. Shiro schools his face, tries to stay neutral and cold, maybe judgmental as he stares down. Their eyes are locked but he can see in his periphery that Keith’s hand is ghosting back where it was. He’s almost pretending that he’s being subtle, as if they both don’t know.

“Get on the bed,” Shiro says, and uses his thumb like a hook to guide Keith to his feet, tugging against him. His prosthesis floats to the bedside table, meets them when Keith sits down at the edge of the mattress. It places the black ribbon into his human hand as he pulls out of Keith’s mouth, and he smooths it between his fingers for a moment. Keith looks drunk, needy, worn out already. He runs the ribbon against Keith’s cheek, letting him feel how soft it is. “Give me your hands.”

“Shiro…” 

“You want to be good for me, right baby?” 

Keith looks like he’s going to protest but he’s lifting his hands up, wrists together, an offering. Shiro scratches beneath Keith’s chin, lightly, pats him on the head again before going to weave the ribbon around his wrists.

“I want you to be good,” he says. “This way you don’t touch. Okay?”

His voice is small. “Oh-kay.”

He steps in close, closer than he needs to be, presses his thigh between Keith’s so that he leans into Keith’s dick. Keith doesn’t even try to hide the way he rocks forward, ruts against Shiro’s leg. Shiro pauses, looks him in the face. He doesn’t need to say anything, just raises an eyebrow, pulls the knot in tighter. Keith is blushing.

There’s a voice still, a tiny force he’s trying to bury, something telling him to feel anxious. Something about restraints, and he remembers being quarantined at the Garrison when he escaped, and remembers being bound in wait before his fights in the arena, remembers being strapped down when they amputated his arm. His subconscious tells him that this is a bad idea, a thing he shouldn’t play with, but the way Keith stares up at him is so open, devoted. He’s tense, undeniably, but it’s sex. It isn’t real. He can feel the pieces moving around inside, feels his brain setting the fear to good use. It translates nicely to arousal, heats in the same parts of his gut. 

He sits down on the edge of the bed, next to Keith, and leans in to kiss him. Cards his fingers through Keith’s hair as they close in. Keith’s hands, bound together, come forward to lean against Shiro’s chest, the ribbon soft on his breast bone. 

It’s enough to reel him back in, bring him back to the moment, maybe enough to pull Keith back from the edge for a little while. He touches Keith’s temples, the outsides of his ears, his ribs. Traces the scars, sucks at his bottom lip. 

This is good.

He licks into Keith’s mouth and one of them whimpers; Shiro would like to pretend it wasn’t him, but he isn’t confident about it. Keith’s hands start to drop down to his lap, perfectly able to reach still, but Shiro hooks his metal fingers into the ribbon before he can get there. He pulls up, his arm floating above them so that Keith is stretched out, whining. He breathes deep and the lines of his ribs show as he arches his back. He struggles, thrashes for a moment, but can’t get loose.

“God,” Shiro says, and sucks at Keith’s tongue. “You know how much that turns me on?”

Keith’s eyebrows come together in question but he doesn’t speak. His mouth hangs open like he doesn’t know how.

“You’re a Blade, baby, I know you can get free.”

His cheeks go red and he squirms again, tugs hard enough that Shiro almost loses control of his arm. But it remains, and the fury flashes for a moment in Keith’s face, gone as soon as it’s arrived. 

“Or maybe you don’t really want to get out,” he continues, low. “You know how desperate that looks? You think I’m gonna pity you? Like you’re some pathetic little alien, can’t even get out of a simple knot.”

Keith grunts and yanks down hard, but Shiro pulls back harder, stretches him enough that his hips lift up to adjust. He takes the opportunity to lean in and suck at one of Keith’s nipples. The rain hits harder into the windows and thunder goes off somewhere in the distance. It sounds far away, as if that even matters here.

The muscles in Keith’s arm swell as he tugs again, and his body crashes forward against Shiro’s. His cock is leaking and leaves a trail across Shiro’s stomach. He’s still twisting and pulling as Shiro touches the precum with his human hand, laughing a little.

“You’re enjoying this,” he says, and presses it to Keith’s lips to let him taste himself. 

It’s funny, how Keith willingly licks at Shiro’s fingertips, how he continues to struggle and how his face is drawn into a frown. But he’s moaning now and still so fucking hard. The veins rise in his skin and there’s a moment where Shiro wonders if he’s actually trying to break free.

“You’re like a little cat,” he says, and brushes a lock of hair away from Keith’s eyes. “A little baby kitten. Acting all fierce. It’s adorable.”

“Come on,” he grunts. “I thought you were gonna fuck me.”

“I will, baby,” Shiro kisses the tip of his nose, gives him a wink. Lets him seethe for a second before leaning into kiss him hard on the mouth. “You’re impatient. I said I would, didn’t I?”

Thunder crackles outside again, loud enough that Shiro turns his head to the window by reflex. It’s enough of a distraction that he doesn’t see Keith move, isn’t ready for it when Keith wrenches himself up, grabs onto Shiro’s Altean wrist with both his hands and begins to raise himself. When Shiro looks back to watch he takes a moment to appreciate the flexibility, the core strength, the way his arms bend to twist out. 

Maybe sometimes he forgets to think about Blade stuff. Maybe he forgets about the abyss. God. _Fuck_.

The way Keith almost escapes makes him so fucking hard.

But the arm is an advantage; he’s two steps ahead. He slams the prosthesis down to the mattress at the same moment he grips Keith around the hip with his other hand, tight enough to bruise. He flips Keith over and pins his wrists down to the bed, climbs over to straddle the backs of his legs. Keith arches and tries to wiggle away, but Shiro places his hand flat over his spine, presses him down hard.

“Stay still, baby,” he mumbles, and rubs up and down Keith’s back. “Be good.”

He stops moving but he’s rigid, holding himself tight, shoulder blades rising sharp. Shiro pets him a few more times, waiting for him to settle in, before lowering his hand, drawing it to the cleft of Keith’s ass, pressing until he feels the wrinkled muscle. He circles around it until Keith goes lax, gives in, loose against the bed.

“That’s it,” he says. His prosthesis keeps the grip tight, stretches Keith out so that he’s barely balancing on his elbows. “Good boy.”

He nuzzles at Keith’s cheek as he moves his fingers, teases around his hole without pressing in. Left handed, and one-handed, and it’s not his most graceful moment but he does his best to spread him open, make space so that he can use his mouth. The reaction is instant—Keith whines and shudders as Shiro licks around him, as he sucks around the edge. He grabs a handful of Keith’s cheek, squeezes hard enough that Keith hisses, and plunges his tongue inside. 

Keith’s hips are rolling forward, close enough to the bed that he’s grinding his hardon down against it, and Shiro squeezes harder in warning as he pulls away.

“You’re not gonna come, are you? Just from this?” he asks. He licks over again as he waits for the answer. “Didn’t I just let you come when we were outside?”

“Please, Shiro…”

“So needy, baby.”

One of Keith’s legs kicks out in frustration and bounces against the bed. 

“Be good,” Shiro says, and goes in again. 

He can feel it from Keith’s body, and maybe the air around them, maybe Black weaving it all together. Feels the way Keith is winding up and up, the way his muscles go tense, the way he tries to pitch forward against the mattress again. He’s getting close, even just from this, and Shiro takes his time, makes it slow and lazy and wet, to see how far he can push.

“Please, Shiro,” Keith says again, almost out of breath. “I’m gonna come, please… please…”

It’s hard to know how much of Keith’s sensitivity is normal or if it’s the void, but it’s curling around him. He squeezes again and continues to move his mouth, feeling out the limits. Keith’s hands are tugging at the ribbon again and he focuses on holding him down in place.

“Shiro _fuck_ , I—“

He pulls off right as the energy rises in the room, as he knows Keith is right at the edge. He presses his thumb against Keith’s hole, rubs a circle around it, still slick with saliva. 

“Don’t,” is all he says, and his touch goes soft, drawing Keith away from it. He’s whining into the bed, wiggling his hips, and Shiro feels it recede in the room. Less urgent, but ruined a little bit. He chuckles under his breath and pats Keith on the ass. “Calm down, it’s okay.”

Shiro presses one of his fingertips to Keith’s hole, experimental, and it’s wet enough that he sinks in to his first knuckle, but he knows it isn’t enough. Keith body tries to fold in on itself, halted by the way Shiro is still holding him down. 

“If I let you go, can you behave?” he asks. He thinks Keith maybe still has fight in him but he’s starting to break down. The way his shoulders sag spell out the discouragement. Shiro bends over him to kiss the knob at the top of his spine, graze over it with his teeth, and his erection presses heavy against Keith’s ass. There’s still desperation between them and Keith grunts in frustration, but his hands go loose. 

It’s an answer in itself, but Shiro bites over Keith’s spine, sees the way the hair raises on the back of his neck. “I asked you a question.”

He flexes his shoulders but doesn’t try to fight. 

“Yes,” he says quietly. 

“Yes what?”

“Yes, sir. I’ll be good.”

“That’s what you want, right?” he tucks Keith’s hair back and tries to look at this face, but Keith turns to hide against the bed. “You want to be a good boy for me.”

“Mmm.”

He has an idea as he’s drawing back, sitting back up and slowly letting Keith’s wrists loose. It comes to him in the way he’s fully immersed in the void, as he checks in with himself as a reminder that it’s not real. He flexes the fingers on the prosthetic hand as he draws it closer to himself, experimental, and wonders what he can manifest. It activates the same space in his brain that the Atlas does, and he wonders…

There’s a bottle of lube next to them on the bed that wasn’t there before, and he reaches for it with his human hand, flips the lid and pours it onto the prosthesis. Keith braces at the sound, draws in a breath. 

The new arm doesn’t ache the way his old one did, isn’t heavy all the time, doesn’t burn phantom pain when he utilizes it. So it’s just warm, pleasant and natural as he sinks the middle finger into Keith’s body and…

“ _Fuck_ ,” Keith hisses, and his hips come up off the bed. He perches his weight on his elbows and tries to rise, but Shiro is still sitting across his thighs, holding him down. “Jesus Christ, _fuck_ , Shiro, what the fuck—“

The fingers are humming to life, vibrating in Keith’s body, and Shiro laughs low in his chest as Keith thrashes against him. He plunges in, feels for Keith’s prostate and skirts around it, and he wonders if he’ll be able to do this in the real world. 

“Shh,” he tries to sound comforting and pets Keith’s hair. “Relax, baby boy.”

He brings up the speed, drills it directly onto Keith’s prostate where it’s probably too much, too intense, so that he goes rigid all over for a moment. He hooks his finger, holds him there until he’s panting. He squirms in frustration and then rolls his hips down, rubs himself against the bed. 

“Don’t do that,” Shiro says softly, and eases down. He runs his finger in a circle, rolling the pressure around the edges of Keith’s entrance, adding a finger when it seems like time. Keith presses his forehead to the mattress and Shiro thinks he probably wants to rut down again, but he’s behaving.

“You’re the worst,” he mumbles into the bed. 

“You’re a _slut_.”

He’s not trying to get free from his binds, but he’s making fists, digging his nails into his palms, twisting back and forth. His voice comes out in a tangle, high pitched, and there’s thunder outside again.

Shiro turns to watch the window, his fingers still moving. Completely black outside but he can make out the water streaming over the glass. He’s not sure if it’s the desert outside or the city and wonders if the rain is washing away all the dust.

“Please,” Keith whimpers, and he moves like he’s trying to get up on his knees again, but he’s pinned down under Shiro’s weight. “Shiro please, _sir_ , please I’m gonna come, I’m gonna come.”

He experiments with the pulse of the vibrations, teases him, stretches his fingers apart. “You wouldn’t do that,” he says. “Not when I said you couldn’t. Right?”

“Shiro—“

“ _Sir_.”

The noise that comes out is barely human. “ _Sir,_ please please I’m—“

He feels it again, squeezing around the room suffocating and warm. Feels Keith nearing the edge. Black is telling him so, the void feels it, too, but he thinks he can push just a little bit more. There’s lightning outside, and thunder a moment later, and Keith starts trembling all over. 

“Fuck fuck Shiro Shiro Shiro—“

Shiro reaches beneath at the last second to grab Keith around his dick, squeezing hard as he stops the vibrations. Keith still drips out over his fingers, the saddest little spurt, cut off. He waits for it to pass before petting over Keith’s dick, not to stroke him off, but to express condolence. It’s still hard and Keith still squirms, and when he cries out in protest Shiro finally pulls away. 

“Come here,” he says, gently while Keith recovers, and he crawls back, to the headboard. Keith turns to watch, and even with his hands tied he’s graceful as he pushes up to his knees and follows. Shiro takes the lube from where it was dropped into the sheets and pours more out, jerks himself off slowly as he watches Keith approach. 

Keith’s eyes are dazed as he closes the distance, crawls on top of Shiro’s lap. 

“You’re still graceful,” Shiro says, and reaches to touch Keith’s face. “Even tied up, still graceful. Like a cat.”

Keith settles his weight on Shiro’s thighs and raises his arms, hooks over Shiro’s head to stay in place. Shiro leans in to kiss Keith’s throat, kissing a line beneath his jaw, to the soft space beneath his ear. The sounds coming out of him make Shiro’s dick throb.

He pulls back to look Keith in the eyes, ready to keep teasing him, but the expression on his face makes Shiro stop. It’s dark, heavy. On his way to being wrecked, definitely still desperate, a little slutty. Needy. But there’s something serious, too. His forehead creases like he’s trying to focus and he grinds closer to Shiro’s body. It seems more than sexual, more about being _close_. His eyes dart back and forth across Shiro’s face. He’s _studying_.

“What?” Shiro runs his hands down Keith’s ribs, curls over his hips, settles on his ass. “What are you staring at?”

His fingers twist the short strands of hair at the back of Shiro’s head, the only thing he can reach with his wrists still bound together. It dances up Shiro’s spine. 

“I want to remember you like this.” 

The weight of these couple days in the void settles hard on Shiro’s shoulders, sinks in his gut. He wants to ask what Keith means, and there’s a moment of terror where he feels like he’s falling. _What do I know_? he tends to ask himself, and wonders if Keith has learned to do the same. He squeezes Keith’s ass, holds him tight, wonders if he knows where he is.

But Keith gives him the answer as he studies Shiro’s face. 

“I could stay here,” he whispers. His eyes dart back and forth again, like he isn’t sure where to look. 

Something snaps. 

Blood is rushing to Shiro’s cock and everything spins a little bit and it’s pure instinct that he reaches up and slaps Keith across the face, before he even realizes he’s doing it. The sound cracks through the room, recharges the color. Everything goes vibrant as Keith’s mouth hangs open in shock. Shiro’s right hand grips tight, enough that Keith flinches, but his hardon hasn’t waned. It presses up against Shiro’s stomach.

“I’m gonna fuck you,” Shiro says. The shape of his hand is slowly blooming in red on Keith’s cheek. “I’ll fuck you here, but we’re going home.”

Keith nods absently and rolls his hips, leans back like he’s trying to guide himself onto Shiro’s dick, but Shiro doesn’t help him.

“You want that?” he asks. He kneads Keith’s flesh and pulls him apart, lets his dick press idly through the cleft. Keith tries to lower himself onto it again but he doesn’t have enough control, it’s too slick. He makes a frustrated noise and claws at the back of Shiro’s head.

Shiro rubs over the red mark on Keith’s face, warm to touch. 

“I asked you a question.”

Keith rocks forward, tries again. He squeezes his thighs around Shiro’s hips. “Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“I want it,” he whines. “I want you to fuck me.”

Shiro chuckles and leans forward to kiss the side of Keith’s head, over his hair. He breathes there for a moment, inhales him. “I know you do. What else?”

“I…” he almost has it, and goes to shift his weight but Shiro’s Altean arm cradles around him, holds him in place.

“You want to come home, right?”

“Yes… Shiro…”

He holds himself by the base, stays steady so that Keith can finally do it. Keith shudders as he finally gets there, and Shiro bites his lip at the pressure, the heat. 

“We aren’t going to stay,” he says, and trails his hand along Keith’s spine, feeling his bones. “You have…” he grunts softly and tilts his hips upwards, “a life to live…” Keith whimpers as they bottom out, and his skin is going slick with sweat. “You have… a world to save…”

Keith’s elbows dig into Shiro’s shoulders as he pushes for leverage. He rises on his knees and shakes when he sinks back down, over and over. 

“That’s it, baby,” Shiro says. He runs his hands up and down Keith’s back, drags nails across his shoulder blade. “Ride me, like that. Just like that.”

It’s ridiculous that Keith is tied up, really. He could get free, they both know it. But his obedience bathes warmth across Shiro’s skin. His devotion. Shiro mouths at Keith’s neck as he scratches upwards, over his ribs, shoulders, to the back of his head. He massages at Keith’s scalp for a moment as a warning, lets him moan into it, before he makes a fist, pulls his hair tight.

“ _Fuck—“_ Keith hisses and arches his back so that their chests press together. Shiro swears he can feel Keith’s heart between them. His rhythmstutters, he goes still in Shiro’s lap, weakly rolls forward once, twice more before he gives up. His weight falls back into Shiro’s lap so that Shiro fucks him deep, and he whines as Shiro twists at his hair. The shock of it ripples through the room, the void, Black. It’s sharp and red, _hot_ , and fuck it feels good. Shiro does it again.

He breathes through his teeth and thrusts up so that Keith bounces. He has to focus to keep his voice schooled, keep the mask on, but he thinks he sounds remarkably calm when he speaks. “Do you understand?” 

“Hnngh—“ his nails press little points into Shiro’s scalp but don’t scratch. 

“Words, Keith.” Sharp thrust up, and the angle tugs Keith’s hair. It bares the lines of his throat and Shiro leans in to drag his teeth across the hard cartilage. 

“Sh-Shiro—“

“Tell me,” he whispers, and he slaps across Keith’s face again. Lighter this time, with his free hand. The metal makes a hollow pop over his cheek, and he thinks in the real world it might be too much. He imagines that it might bruise his jaw, cut his lip, and the thought of it surges to his dick. Breath comes out ragged as he adjusts around it, like he’s about to fall, hanging on an edge. 

“I’ll…” he nearly goes still, squeezes around Shiro’s cock, “…I’ll come home. I’ll come home.”

“Good,” Shiro leans in to kiss, wet, licks into him. Keith shakes in his lap, barely moving. “Why’d you stop?”

At first he just whines, out of words, and the tie around his wrists digs into the back of Shiro’s neck. Their chests press together, damp, and he brings himself up Shiro’s dick, careful and slow. “Please…”

“Please what?” he brushes Keith’s hair away from his eyes. “Don’t stop.”

“I’m gonna come…”

“You don’t want to come?”

There’s a half-attempt at a bounce and he shudders. “Please… can I?”

Shiro laughs and thrusts up into him so that his body jolts upwards and they crash into each other. “No, you can’t. Don’t you dare.”

“Shiro—“ his voice does a little hiccup, almost crying. His legs squeeze tight around Shiro’s hips. “Please, please…”

He yanks at Keith’s hair again, so that he arches in Shiro’s lap, and the way the pain heats up the room around them is encouraging. He shakes out his free hand, his right hand, like he needs to test its give for a moment, before he brings it down hard against Keith’s ass. The slap is loud in the room and Keith shouts, whimpers, gasps.

“ _Shiro_ , don’t—“

Again, and his brain can feel the force of it even though there’s no real sensation. It’s ironic that Keith’s reaction, the way his mouth hangs slack and his eyes go hazy, makes Shiro want to come, too. 

“What?” he asks. He’s trying to sound cool but his voice is drawn out by his heavy breathing. “You get off on being slapped around? You’re gonna come because I spanked you?”

Another, and he uses the range of his prosthesis to get a different angle. 

“Fuck, fuck,” he starts to pull at the binding around his wrists frantically, like he’s trying to get free again. “ _Stop_ , Shiro, fuck, oh my god—“

Shiro’s mind warps around it. _Stop_ , Keith said. Shiro’s spine goes cold. _Stop_. But he remembers the safe word.

There’s a flash of phantom pain in his arm, tingling hard enough that the fingers of his prosthesis clench. A memory floats around him, puts the room in a fog as he tries to concentrate. Keith’s voice rings clear in his head; he hears how it cracked, how it was drawn out as he tried to catch his breath. _Kerberos_ , he’d whined, and in the present he smacks Keith on the ass again to clear it away. _Focus_ , Shiro tells himself. The shock and pain of it slices through the room and helps bring him back.

It’s hovering there, the echo of it. No context, no images. Just the throaty plea. He thrusts up into Keith’s body so that he slumps forward onto Shiro’s chest, and his body is going so tight. He’s trying so hard not to come. 

“Shiro, don’t, don’t—“

_Focus_ , he holds Keith by the hair, yanks him so that his spine arches, gets him upright again. No context in the memory and it still flutters around the sides of the room, haunts him. He doesn’t remember the scene, or why they stopped, doesn’t remember what Keith looked like that night. But he remembers the surge of love, the trust, remembers that the clone stopped. 

And he remembers the way it all set into place. There had been uncertainty, always. The clone struggled with it the way Shiro has been struggling with it during this time in the void. But Keith could say it if he had to, he could tap out. He had. _We can trust him_.

Shiro shakes his head to himself, trying to reset. He bites at Keith’s throat, sucks his skin until he knows it’ll bruise. He wants to stay in the present, wants to be himself. But it’s fading, soft and unintrusive. Maybe just a hint, just enough, all he needed.

“ _Please_ ,” Keith whimpers. Shiro holds him back by his hair, tugs to put some space between them so that he can see. Keith’s face is red, his eyes glazed over. Shiro hadn’t noticed him crying but there are tears hanging in his eyelashes. 

“Please what?”

He’s so stiff, holding himself rigid like he wants to stop. There’s a sharp gasp through his teeth when Shiro slams up into him again. The tremor in his voice is almost musical. “Please, I’m gonna come.”

“You want me to stop? You don’t want to come?”

“ _Shiro_ ,” he lets out a small sob, quiet and weak. “Can I come? Fuck fuck please, please…”

Shiro doesn’t answer, just lets out a little chuckle and thrusts harder. He slaps Keith on the ass again and they both moan. His pain heats the room, pulses through the air. Thick and heady and Shiro almost comes, himself. He gives Keith an aloof smirk, watches how his face goes slack, mouth open. It seems like he’s ready to beg again but maybe he’s out of words. Instead he’s just making noise, the octave dancing with every stroke of Shiro’s dick into his body. 

“P-please,” he says one more time, on an inhale, and Shiro squeezes his ass over the red spots. There’s no more warning except that Keith thrashes for a moment, tries to wiggle his hands free and grinds his arms against Shiro’s collarbones as he struggles for leverage. It’s like he’s trying to stop, to pull off, but Shiro holds him tight and then it’s happening.

“Shiro,” he sobs, and he writhes on Shiro’s cock, sniffles, tries to lean into Shiro’s neck but he’s still being held back by his hair. Between them, he’s shooting thick ropes of cum onto Shiro’s belly, and Shiro looks down to see the way it’s dripping between the lines of his muscles, against his scars. Shiro eases him down, still fucking him languidly, but he runs his prosthetic fingers through the mess. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I couldn’t stop, I didn’t mean to—“

The words are interrupted when Shiro brings his hand to Keith’s mouth, pushes through before Keith can protest. The fingers click against his teeth and Keith moans. His face burns redder and more tears well up in his eyes. 

“Such a little slut,” Shiro mumbles. He rubs his fingers up and down Keith’s tongue, stroking him until he begins to suck. “That’s right, clean it up. How does it taste?”

It doesn’t really matter what Keith’s answer is, just that his voice is muffled around Shiro’s fingers. It seems to be affirmative.

“Can’t believe you,” he whispers. Keith is still shuddering through aftershocks and not moving too much, but Shiro lets go of his hair, squeezes around his hip so that he can continue thrusting up. When his spent cock rubs against Shiro’s abs, he bites down on Shiro’s knuckle. There’s no pain, of course. Shiro just has that slightly muted sense that it’s happening with no real feeling behind it. Just data from the sensors. He wonders if it would break Keith’s teeth in the real world. He fucks harder, pulls Keith tight to his body. Their chests are slick with sweat and he leans in to breathe against Keith’s ear. “This isn’t even real and you still couldn’t control yourself.”

Keith drools around the metal fingers and makes a sound that’s probably supposed to be Shiro’s name.

“I ask you to do one thing,” Shiro says, low. “One fucking thing.”

Shiro’s own orgasm is beginning to crest and he bites down on Keith’s shoulder to draw himself back. He slows and pulls out, slides out from under the cage of Keith’s arms. Keith looks relieved to get a break, his eyes heavy and chest still heaving, but it’s only a moment before Shiro takes him beneath both his thighs and knocks him down onto his back. He bounces off the mattress with a soft _augh_ and stares up through his bangs. 

It makes Shiro pause for a second, just to take it in. He looks amazing. Wrecked and sweaty and it’s almost painful how fucking gorgeous he is. 

His hands, still bound, press weakly against Shiro’s chest. Shiro leans over him, bites at his ear before speaking gently. “You didn’t even thank me.”

Keith opens his mouth to speak but Shiro grabs his cock before he can say anything. His eyes blow wide and he starts to arch off the bed, but Shiro’s prosthesis presses him down by the shoulder. Wrung out and oversensitive and he’s thrashing the best he can, hitting Shiro’s breast bone. 

“Th-thank you, thank you,” he says, a beat too late, and Shiro presses his thumb hard into his slit, traces a circle around it until Keith is crying. 

“You’re a cockhungry little mess,” he whispers. Holding Keith down with the Altean arm is effortless and way he struggles sparks heat through his whole body. He feels the energy of it in his core, his cock, his nipples. He presses the palm of his hand to Keith’s cockhead, smears the rest of the cum, rubs back and forth until he’s babbling, hysterical, past words.

“Stop, fuck, Shiro, please, please, please—“

“Isn’t this what you wanted?”

“Please please it’s too much too much too much—“

He lets go of Keith’s shoulder and strokes his jaw for a moment, like checking the temperature before he pulls back and slaps him in the face again. The metal clunks again his jaw bone and his eyes go wide. 

“Do you know why I’m doing this to you?” Shiro asks. 

“Because…” he whines and he’s beginning to shake all over, teeth chattering. “Because, because—“

“Calm down, shh,” Shiro makes his voice gentle, but his hand hasn’t stopped moving. Keith is still trembling and his eyes are getting distant like he can’t focus. Mouth hanging open. Shiro slaps him again to bring him back. “You’re doing so good, baby. But tell me why.”

He clenches his teeth and tears spill out when he shuts his eyes. There’s lighting outside and it shines in the tear tracks. “I… came… when I wasn’t… allowed to…”

“Shh, yes,” Shiro strokes him slowly, some parody of being gentle, as if it’s a reward, but he’s still too sensitive. It’s still making him spasm. “Why else?”

“Because…” he opens his eyes and they’re so watery and red. It makes his eyelashes look bigger. Pretty. But he looks dazed, lost, like he doesn’t have the answer.

“Come on, baby. Tell me. Tell me why you do this. You can do it.”

“Hnngh, Shiro, please, _fuck_ ,” his eyebrows come together and he looks so sweet and pathetic, Shiro almost takes mercy on him. But he can feel the way Keith’s dick is pulsing in his hand and he knows he can take it just a little further. He thumbs at the slack of his foreskin, swipes at the remaining cum. Keith finally says it through his teeth, jaw fused shut, and his eyes close like he’s embarrassed. “Because I’m a slut.” 

“Mm, that’s right,” and he’s letting go of Keith’s dick, grabbing him by the backs of his thighs and folding him over, holding him open. He lines his cock back up and Keith is still so stretched out, still dripping with lube. He gasps and weakly hits Shiro in the chest as he sinks back in. “So loose for me…”

The first few thrusts are tame, slow as Shiro readjusts to the feeling around him. Slow, but firm, so that their skin smacks together and Keith bounces against the mattress. 

“Shiro, _Shiro,_ ” he’s whining. “It’s too much, please…”

Keith is worn out but his legs still wrap around Shiro’s waist, allow him to let go. He curls his hands beneath Keith’s back, trail up to hold him by the shoulders for leverage. Pulls him down tight and fucks him harder. Their faces are close and they’re breathing into each other’s air. 

“You love it,” Shiro whispers, then leans in to kiss. Heat everywhere, wet and warm, and Keith bites at his lip when he pulls away. The blunt fingertips of the prosthesis trace down Keith’s back, unable to scratch, but he draws them around, up Keith’s sides, bumping over his ribs. It leaves a trail of goosebumps in its wake. He watches the way it moves, slow and gentle, the way it shines in the blue light from his shoulder. Rain hits the window and it almost feels like he’s not the one in control. Not sure where it’s coming from when he settles against Keith’s throat.

It’s so big. He thinks if he squeezed that he could wrap it all the way around, that the fingertips would connect in the back. It’s so dangerous and floods energy to his dick. 

Keith is still whining and worn out but his face lights up at the pressure against his Adams apple, excited even through the fog, and Shiro laughs a little, licks at his jaw. The tears left his skin salty. 

“Really?” he asks, mocking. Ironic, because as the moment sinks in he’s realizing how badly he wants it, too, how much they’re both getting off on the danger of it. Keith shuts his eyes and nods, more tears sneaking out. Shiro’s thumb and forefinger caress his pulse points, tease him there. He kisses Keith’s cheeks, tastes his tears again. “Snap your fingers if you want me to stop.”

And then he’s squeezing in. 

Keith’s eyes open and his face is red, his legs go tighter around Shiro’s waist and Shiro fucks him harder. The way the bottom falls from his stomach is either arousal or terror, he can’t be sure, some hideous mix of both. He can barely trust himself to jerk off with his new arm, it’s a goddamn weapon, and now he’s choking out the person he cares about more than anything in the world. 

A memory slices in; not sex this time. Something else. Noise and lights and the smell of Keith’s burnt flesh and they were in a position almost like this one. Shiro’s heart tenses and he shifts his weight on his knees to slam into Keith harder. _Not now. Not now._ It seizes all over his body but he shuts his eyes and tries to find a rhythm, lets the warmth in his nerves wash through. 

He flexes his hand and something pops in Keith’s throat. His mouth goes dry and he watches Keith’s face for a signal, but his eyelids are still fluttering in bliss. If this were the real world…

But it isn’t.

_You can’t hurt me here._

Keith’s mouth opens and closes like he’s trying to speak but it’s only empty air wheezing out. His dick is twitching between them, probably still sensitive but come back, ready again. 

“You gonna come again for me, baby?” he pants. And no words in response, but his face is red and sweaty and he’s nodding his head as much as he can. He paws at Shiro’s chest and his hands are cold. Shiro kisses his temple. “You look so good right now. So good. So good.”

There’s a squeaky breath of air and he pulls back to watch. Keith’s mouth is shaping Shiro’s name, but no sound is coming out. _Shiro, Shiro,_ it looks like, and his body goes rigid, abs clench. He doesn’t tap out but his fingertips dig into Shiro’s clavicle. For a moment, Shiro can’t breathe, either.

“We don’t need to breathe here,” he whispers, and Keith’s eyes go wide, and even beneath the pressure of Shiro’s hand he gasps for air, back arching up off the bed. 

“Shiro,” he whines, and his voice is scratchy and broken but makes it through. Shiro adjusts his grip and slides his fingers around the back of Keith’s neck, to test his theory. His thumb and middle finger click together in the back and Keith cries out. “Shiro—fuck—Shiro I’m gonna come, fuck, Shiro—“

“Do it,” he says, and pounds in. “Come for me, baby, do it.”

“Fuck, Shiro,” Keith says again, and his face is twisting and he’s convulsing and Shiro feels the cum between them, shot out over his stomach. His thighs go in a vice around Shiro’s hips as he keeps babbling through it. “Shiro, fuck,don’t stop, fuck, Shiro, _Daddy—“_

The room goes white and all he hears is the rain on the windows for a moment, and he can’t know if it’s an illusion from the void or just the orgasm ripping his mind to shreds. He can’t see, but he can feel Keith beneath him still, knows he’s collapsed down, that he’s resting his head on Keith’s throat. Their skin is damp and hot. He can hear Keith’s pulse, but maybe he’s hearing it for real, from the real world. Maybe it’s breaking through the veil.

Rain on the windows and he remembers that night again, Keith soaked at his door, hair plastered to his face. He’d fussed about it later, at bedtime, telling Adam they should bring him another blanket, but Adam was wrapping his limbs all around Shiro’s body, holding him in an octopus grip.

“He’s fine,” Adam whispered against Shiro’s ear. “Leave him alone, let him sleep.”

And the rain hadn’t stopped. Pounded against the windows as Shiro tried to be quiet a while later. Adam cupped his hand over Shiro’s mouth as he drilled in. 

“Keep your voice down,” he mumbled. “I mean Jesus, Takashi, we have company over. You’re shameless.”

Shiro was trying, he was trying, he was trying—

His tongue is numb as the room comes back into focus. He’s on his back and Keith is hovering over, propped up on one elbow. His hands are free and there’s a weak flash in Shiro’s body over it, but it’s too soon to get so turned on again. Keith is petting his hair, drawing a soothing pattern against his head.

“Hey,” Keith says. His voice is rough, a little worn out. “Are you okay?”

He frowns, in a haze, not sure what the right answer is. _This place is full of fucking ghosts,_ he wants to say, but doesn’t think it’ll make sense. It’s a can of worms he doesn’t want to open.

But, what a joke. What place? 

His throat is dry when he speaks. “We need to go home.”

Keith gives him a sad smile. “I know.”

He drops down to lay beside Shiro, throws an arm over his stomach. They’re both messy and wet, covered in cum and lube and whatever else. But it’s nice, he’s not going to move yet. Everything is warm and soft.

And it’s not that they sleep. It isn’t sleep. But his mind expands around them in the void and the fear is gone. There’s an emptiness in his head that he can’t recall ever feeling, like… like he’s missing parts. But they’re parts he doesn’t want. Maybe this is what peace feels like.

There are stars above again, and the net of silver cords. He can still hear the rain, but the room is gone. He wraps his human arm around Keith’s shoulder, pulls him tight. He can’t tell if it’s been hours or minutes but their skin is still damp and messy between them. It should be gross, but it’s comforting.

“Shiro…” Keith says. The room flashes into focus again, once, twice. Flickering like it’s losing power. Keith swallows hard and sits up. Shiro’s skin breaks out in chills where it’s exposed to the open air. “Shiro.”

He sits up, as well, stomach pinching with alarm. “What?”

Keith is frowning, confused. His pupils flash purple for a moment and the room flickers again. 

“I feel like I’m disappearing.”

“Wait, what—“ he reaches for Keith’s cheek but only gets empty space. 

It aches in his brain, squeezes around the top of his spinal cord. He goes to stand, to push off the bed, to scream, but nothing is there. His mind physically hurts, ripples around it, and the fear comes back sharp. 

_I got out. I’m out._

He covers his face and squeezes his eyes shut. _What do I_ know _? What do I know? What do I fucking_ do _?_

Keith…

There’s pain when he opens his eyes. Bright light that shoots to the back of his head, aches like a migraine for a second. But it’s a dull throb that isn’t going away. When he died it was sharp, loud, sudden. But it was over in a flash.

He rubs his forehead and the bright white starts to fade as his eyes adjust. Ceiling tiles and… oh. 

Oh.

It takes a moment for the feeling to come back to his body, like his soul is trying to snap into place. Ears are ringing as he sits up. The curtains are closed but it’s bright enough—a slash of sunlight cuts through a crack and he squints against it. 

Christ. How long has he been out?

“Good morning, Shiro,” the voice behind him is even and unbothered and if he were more alert he’d be startled, but it only works to ground him. He blinks hard and turns away from the window to look.

Keith’s doctor is near the doorway, tablet in hand. She gives him a half smile as she crosses the room and leans over Keith’s side of the bed. And, oh. Keith.

The hospital mattress crinkles beneath him as he shifts to look. She’s pulling back one of Keith's eyelids and his pupil constricts. There’s still a blotch of red in the corner but it’s smaller now.

“What time is it?” he asks. He touches his face and feels the scratch of stubble. He rubs his eyes and looks around the room for the clock. Almost noon, _fuck_. He goes tense and starts to stand.

“Don’t worry, Commander Holt had your schedule cleared this morning. We thought you could use the rest.”

His face goes hot and he rubs the back of his neck. Everything feels weird. It wasn’t real but he still feels like he needs a shower, like there’s still a film over his skin. A shower, and a shave, maybe a coffee. Maybe a stiff drink.

He’s zoning out, trying to wake up, and the click of her fingernails against the tablet bring him back. He focuses on her, watches as she plugs information into Keith’s chart. 

“Uh. How’s he doing?” 

Her eyes wrinkle when she smiles and she reaches over to pat Shiro on the knee.

“We’ve been stepping him down all morning. He’s just fine.”

It’s a habit to glance at the monitors, at the charts he doesn’t understand. She taps her thumb against the edge of her tablet for a moment as she studies Shiro’s face.

“Did you find him?” she asks. 

“I…” god, how surreal. His face burns again. “Yeah. I found him.”

And she smiles again, and squeezes his shoulder, and then she’s leaving. The door whirs closed behind her and then it’s just the two of them. Silent.

It takes a few minutes for his mind to catch up, for him to feel awake and human again. He stares at the closed door, thinking of a hundred questions he should’ve asked. He checks around the room, wonders where Krolia went. Wonders how long Keith is going to be out. 

What’s the protocol here? He scratches at the stubble on his jaw again and wonders if he has time to go shower, wonders how urgent all of this is. Because Keith deserves to have someone waiting. 

But he’s still so fucking tired. He wonders if what he went through even counts as sleep.

He sighs after a while, and stares at the clock until it goes blurry, and then lays back down on his side. He watches Keith’s profile, pets over his scar with the backs of his knuckles. Curls in. It occurs to him that it doesn’t matter how long it’ll take, if he’ll be here all goddamn day. He’ll wait. 

Black’s presence presses against him like heat, like basking in the sun. She feels soft though, pleased. It isn’t the same restless energy she’s been throwing at him the last few days. He breathes deep, accepts it. He thinks it’s real.

And he’s almost asleep when he sees Keith’s face twitch, his nose scrunching in a way that would be so fucking cute if it weren’t so dire. 

Shiro’s sitting up instantly, his heart pounding as he stares down. The corners of Keith’s mouth move, and he’s swallowing hard, coughing a little bit when his eyes flutter open. His eyelashes are so full and thick against his cheeks as he blinks, over and over, adjusting to the light. There’s so much happening in Shiro’s chest he wonders if it constitutes a medical event, and he grabs Keith by the shoulder to steady himself.

“Keith…?”

His eyes look around the room, slowly, still half shut against the light, and his left hand is shaking and weak when he reaches up to touch his own face. He goes to swipe at his eyes with the back of his hand and pauses when he sees the IV. Frowns, confused. Stares at it.

The insecurity flashes in hard; Shiro’s mind goes into hyperspeed trying to make sense of it. He told Keith he was in a coma. Keith _knows_. Is it just the grogginess or does he not remember? Was it not real?

His feet feel cold and his guts are a mess as he waits in the thick silence. Because if none of it happened…

But Keith just swallows hard, and he lifts his other hand to wipe his eyes, instead. He flexes the fingers on his left and watches the way his veins move under the tape, then drops it into his lap with a long sigh. He blinks at the ceiling again and his jaw moves back and forth. 

Shiro doesn’t think he can breathe. His fingers are numb. 

Keith’s mouth opens and closes for a moment, like he’s going to speak, but then he just leans back into his pillows. He takes in a few deep breaths and clears his throat.

“Is this real?” he finally asks.

And Shiro wants to cry, wants to kiss him, wants to scream. He’s shaking and doesn’t know what to say, ready to crash over the edge if it was all a fucking trick, but Keith finally looks up and meets his eyes.

Something clicks. 

_It isn’t magic_ , he remembers saying to Keith’s doctor, defensive about what happened. Not magic, but he can’t explain it. The feeling of it pulsates in his mind, like his brain is trying to make space for the extra time he’s put in. He’s twenty-eight, give or take, and there’s so much more packed into his head. 

He sees it in Keith’s eyes, too. They’re big and dark and full of more time than he’s actually lived. _You came back different._

Keith tilts his head on the pillow, hair splayed everywhere, and he reaches to squeeze Shiro’s hand. And he doesn’t have to say it, but Shiro knows.

“Yeah, baby,” he whispers. “It’s real.”

There’s a soft smile, and their fingers lace together, and Shiro is lying back down, and Keith is curling against him. He’s been so cautious of all the tubes the last few days, but Keith carelessly drapes his arm over Shiro’s body, pulls close. Shiro kisses the top of his head and smiles into his hair; he supposes the tubes don’t matter anymore.

“I’m tired,” Keith says into Shiro’s chest.

Shiro lets himself breathe, calms down. Settles into the heat, pets the back of Keith’s neck.

_What do I know?_

We got out. It was real. And I’m here.

_I’m here. I’m here. I’m here._


End file.
